Star Trek: Republic (Book I: Wounded Warriors)
by Arminas11
Summary: In the aftermath of the Dominion War, Starfleet was desperate to find the ships and crews necessary to secure the newly won peace. But one ship, one forlorn and forgotten ship, was the Fleet's shame. It is up to Captain Matthew Dahlgren to repair the reputation of USS Republic and restore unto her and Starfleet their lost honor.
1. Chapter 1

**Star Trek: Republic**

Book I: Wounded Warriors

A work of fan-fiction based upon the Star Trek universe created by Gene Roddenberry

Authored by Stephen T Bynum

All rights reserved

**Chapter One**

Matt leaned back in his chair and considered the data that flashed on his desktop screen. Frowning, he went back and annotated one section of the analysis on USS _Bessemer_'s first contact with a warp capable civilization in the Zeta Scorpius binary system. Finally satisfied that all of the information requested by the Federation Council was present—and in a readable fashion—he saved the data file and forwarded it onwards and upwards. And he sighed as he closed his eyes and rubbed his aching leg.

The wound still wasn't healing properly, and because of the injury Star Fleet Medical had pulled him off the line and stuck him here, in the bloated bureaucracy of Star Fleet Command. He removed the reading glasses that he wore and rubbed his weary eyes.

Six months. Six months had passed since he left the hospital ward, and still he was trapped here in these labyrinthine corridors hemmed in by bureaucrats who hadn't logged a single hour in space for years. And with the downsizing of the Star Fleet following the conclusion of the Dominion War, it was unlikely in the extreme that he would ever get a chance to stand . . . well, sit, he thought ruefully rubbing his leg, on the bridge of a Starship again.

Why he didn't just resign his commission and go home remained an open question. He had considered it over the past months as one doctor after the next refused to certify him for space. But the thought of that empty house, and an empty life had made him delay time and again. But he couldn't keep putting off the decision, not for much longer. Although Star Fleet was stronger—in absolute terms—than it had been at any point in the last century, there were fewer actual Starships in the Fleet. More powerful ships, true, but the sheer losses suffered in the Dominion War had outpaced the ability of Federation shipyards to commission new vessels into service.

And the damage suffered by Federation member planets meant that, once again, the Federation Council was turning its resources to the so-called Peace Dividend, trying to recover the damage on Earth, Bajor, Betazed, and dozen other member and associated systems. Once the last of the wartime time construction was complete, only a trickle of new ships would emerge each year. And fewer ships meant Star Fleet would have little need for a Captain, especially one who was barely mobile.

BEEP.

The monitor flashed and Matt frowned at the display. He accepted the call, and the screen blanked and then presented the image of a Lieutenant wearing the aiguillettes that marked her as an aide to a member of the Admiralty.

"Captain Dahlgren?" the Lieutenant asked.

"Yes. How may I assist you today, Lieutenant?"

"Admiral Parker requests your presence in his office, Captain, at your earliest convenience."

Matt slowly nodded, even as his heart sank. "Very well, Lieutenant. I will be right there."

The Star Fleet officer shut down his terminal and made certain that all was in order. Then he reached down and grabbed the hickory cane he had started using to help him walk. He stood, wincing as his right leg protested by sending a stabbing pain deep into the bone. And then he left his cubicle and walked over to the tubolift.

"Floor 27," he said, and the lift began to accelerate upwards.

The lift slowed and the doors hissed open. Matt exited the lift and gritted his teeth as he limped down the hallway to Parker's office. The young Lieutenant looked up and then she whispered into a headset; after waiting for a reply, she nodded at the older man. "The Admiral is expecting you, Captain."

Matt walked into the office, where Josiah Parker raised his head and smiled. "Matt, come on it and take a seat. You have met Commodore Jurood, haven't you?" he said as he introduced the blue-skinned Andorian officer sitting in front of Parker's desk.

The Captain extended his hand to the Andorian and nodded his greetings. "No sir. I have, of course, heard of him and his actions at the Battle of Betazed. I have not had the pleasure to make his acquaintance, however."

Jurood shook his head, the antennae twitching in amusement. "I was lucky at Betazed, Captain Dahlgren. Nothing more."

"Fortune favors the brave and the bold, Commodore. And, may I say, you were certainly both at that engagement."

The Andorian inclined his head slightly, but said nothing as Matt sat down.

Parker frowned. "So how's the leg?"

"You probably know more about than I do, Admiral. Star Fleet Medical keeps hemming and hawing about when I can resume active duty—and none of them will give me a straight answer."

The Admiral waved that concern away. "I wasn't asking about what the doctors think, Matt: how is it?"

"It hurts like hell, Admiral. But I can move around and I can do my job. And it is healing." Slowly, Matt thought, but it _is_ healing.

Parker leaned back in his chair and exchanged a look with Jurood. "You know what the doctors will say."

The Andorian made a rude noise. "What they always say: a Star Fleet officer must be at 100% of health and fitness before deployment. Nonsense. If he says he is ready, then he is ready. But you knew that already, Josiah."

Matt sat up a little straighter. What the hell? They aren't talking like they are going to send me to the beach, they are talking like . . . and then he began to smile.

Josiah Parker returned it with a grin of his own. "Well, Matt? Are you up to taking the center seat again?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. I've got a ship in Spacedock right now that I am in desperate need of a Captain for. The _Republic_, Matt."

Matt's grin grew wider. "She was a fine ship when I served on her as an Ensign fresh out of the Academy, Admiral. And the _Korolev_'s just get better with age."

"I take it then that you have not heard why _Republic_ is in Dock, Captain Dahlgren?" asked Jurood in a sour voice.

"No sir. I wasn't even aware she was in system."

"Last month, she responded to a distress call from Omicron Cygnii II. A series of Class IV volcanic eruptions destabilized the tectonic plate on which the colony was originally placed, and the colonists required immediate evacuation."

Matt winced. "That is right on the Gorn border."

Parker nodded somberly. "And forever the opportunists, the Gorn responded as well, planning on claiming the system—and its mineral resources—once the Federation colonists were offworld. They didn't interfere with _Republic_, but as you can imagine, the colonists were not all that happy with the situation. Captain Linda Bates had sent her executive officer down to the surface to coordinate the evacuation, but once the colony government realized that the Gorn were going to claim the planet for themselves they balked at leaving."

"Bates transported down to try and convince the leaders that they simply had to abandon the mines and their homes, even as the climatic conditions worsened."

Jurood shook his head sadly. "And that is when the stress fields on the colony's shields overloaded one of their generators, Captain Dahlgren. It exploded, killing Captain Bates and wounding her first officer."

"Lt. Commander George Harrison was the officer left in command of _Republic_. And he panicked. Somehow, he was convinced that the Gorn had caused the explosion and he . . . he opened fire on their cruiser."

Matt blinked once. And then twice. His jaw dropped. "He what?"

"He took her under fire from _Republic_, and he disabled her warp drive. But he didn't stop her from sending a sub-space transmission that she was under attack by a Federation vessel. And the Gorn sent reinforcements."

"By the time they arrived," Admiral Parker continued, "Harrison had been informed that the explosion was not caused by the Gorn and he attempted to placate them. He failed. They moved in to attack _Republic_—three of their modern _Hrass'ka_-class cruisers—and Harrison ran. He _abandoned_ his away team and the colonists and fled."

"He was a coward, Captain Dahlgren," Jurood added. "And the Gorn slaughtered the colonists and the federation personnel he left behind on the ground. The Council has managed to resolve the situation, but that leaves Star Fleet with the question of what to do with _Republic_ and her crew."

"Harrison is under arrest, technically. He suffered a complete mental breakdown after he realized what the Gorn would do to his shipmates and the colonists—he's been in a state of catatonia every since. But the ship's morale is among the worst that I have ever witnessed; the crew blame themselves for following Harrison's orders and abandoning a Federation colony after they opened fire on an innocent bystander," the Admiral finished and he shook his head sadly.

"All of _Republic_'s officers and senior NCOs have been reassigned; many were cashiered out of service. Her crew are still aboard, and she isn't a happy ship at all, Matt. With the Fleet stretched as far as it is, I can't simply disband and dismiss the crew—and they deserve a chance at rehabilitation. No other ship in Star Fleet wants them, however. So, we have decided to keep them together, assign new officers and senior non-commissioned ranks, and hopefully restore _Republic_ her honor. Are you up for the task of doing so?"

"Yes, sir," Matt said, even though he stomach lurched. "When do I meet my officers?"

"1800 hours. There is a briefing scheduled here at Star Fleet Command. I have to warn you; I pulled in just about every seasoned officer and rating I could from leave, shore assignments, and the Academy, but many of them haven't been in space for years. And most of your junior officers are fresh out of the Academy as well."

"Who is my XO?"

"That is up to you. I've got four eligible officers in this data-file that you can choose from; of course, if you aren't satisfied with them, I'll try and find you someone you can trust."

"What about Chan Shrak?"

Parker raised an eyebrow, and Jurood laughed. "An excellent choice, if I may say so myself."

"He is available, Matt, but are you certain you want Shrak as your XO? The man's ideas on discipline are positively medieval—and the majority of _Republic_'s crew is human. An Andorian executive officer is rare in Star Fleet outside of all-Andorian ships."

"He's a solid officer, Admiral; I have known him for years. And his last assignment was first officer aboard the _Korolev_-class _Andor_, the flagship of your Blue Fleet, Commodore. So he is intimately familiar with the ship's systems. I think his ideas on discipline and training are precisely the medicine that _Republic_'s crew needs right now. And I know that I can work with him."

Parker rose, followed by Jurood and Matt. "In that case, Captain Matthew Dahlgren, I will have the orders cut immediately. God bless you and your new ship Captain, and good hunting," he said as he extended his hand, a hand that Matt took and gave a firm shake.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Matt limped out onto the stage of one of the larger briefing rooms at Star Fleet Headquarters. Nearly two hundred seats were arranged in stadium seating in a half-circle around him, providing all of the attendees with unblocked line of sight to the speaker and the view screen behind him. One hundred and twenty-six of those seats were filled by men and women; primarily humans, but there were a few Vulcans and Tellarites and Betazoids and Trill and other Federation races among them. A white-haired and blue-skinned Andorian standing on the stage nodded and the shrill piping of a bosun's whistle sounded. The commissioned and non-commissioned officers in the audience all stood.

Matt slowly crossed the stage, his cane clicking against the polished wood with every step. Turning his back to the assembly, he stopped next to the Andorian and gave the dour faced man a wink of one eye.

"Good to see you again, Chan."

"And you as well, Captain Dahlgren. I trust that you are responsible for this abrupt change in my orders?"

"I am. Chan, I've a problem ship I need help sorting out. Can I count on you to back my play?"

"Marquis of Queensbury rules?"

"More like a street-fight with a broken whisky bottle, and a length of chain."

The Andorian's antennae twitched in amusement. "So I am to be the Royal Guard drillmaster of Andoria to your what?"

"The hard-nosed son-of-a-bitch, in-your-face Captain who is twice as mean, twice as nasty, and twice as handsome as his ice devil of an exec."

"Hah! Humans have no concept of true beauty, pink-skin. I do believe I will enjoy myself, however," Chan Shrak continued as he scanned the auditorium audience. "These are our victims—I mean our officers?"

"They are."

"I think some of the natives are starting to get restless, Captain Dahlgren. This will be a _fascinating _experience for us all, to quote the Vulcans."

Matt continued over to the podium, and he finally turned around to face the assembled group.

"As you were," he spoke into the microphone. "I am Captain Matthew Dahlgren. By the order of Star Fleet Command and the direct intervention of all nefarious powers of whatever Hell you believe in, I am also your commanding officer and the Captain of the USS _Republic_. Never in my twenty-two years of service in Star Fleet have I seen such a motley, moldy, half-assed collection of so-called officers and senior NCOs. If I had a choice in the matter, I would send half of you back to your mothers to wipe your noses and rinse off your backsides, and might—MIGHT—make a passable team out of the rest. YOU!" Matt bellowed, pointing to one female officer sitting attentively in the front row. "WHO ARE YOU?"

The woman rose; she wasn't dressed in Star Fleet uniform. "Ship's Counselor Andrea Trincullo, Captain Dahlgren. Let me say it is an hon . . ."

"Why are you out of uniform, Ship's Counselor Trincullo? And what, pray tell, is your official rank?"

The woman shook her head and looked puzzled at Matt. "I am a Lieutenant Commander in Medical Branch, Captain Dahlgren. And I have found it is useful to dress in a manner designed to sooth those crewmen who come to me for counseling."

"I see. As of this moment, Lieutenant Commander, you will wear your assigned Star Fleet uniform whenever you are on duty. Is that understood?"

"Captain, I am not certain this is an appropriate venue to dis . . ."

"LIEUTENANT COMMANDER!" Matt barked. "I asked you a question: was I clear in my direct order to you? If the answer is yes, respond with 'aye, aye, Sir'. If the answer is no, you are to respond with 'No, Sir'. Is that understood?"

"Aye, aye, Sir," the counselor muttered through clenched teeth.

"Take your seat, Lieutenant Commander," Matt said, waiting until she sat once more. Then he turned back to face the audience. "Star Fleet has been, for many years now, an organization which seems to have forgotten its purpose, ladies and gentlemen. An objective outsider, looking at our ships and our collection of so-called trained officers might instead get the impression that we are running a luxury liner service, ferrying young men and women across the galaxy so that they might enjoy themselves on strange new worlds!"

"That attitude, in Star Fleet Command, in the Federation Council, and on the decks of individual starships cost us dearly during the Dominion War. We have forgotten that discipline and order is as necessary for our ships as it was in the days of sail. Instead, we have become a debating society, where everyone has their say and gets to express their opinion. It is a society in which our officers and crew are so concerned with recreation and their own amusement that they often fail to do their jobs."

"Well, that, ladies and gentlemen is about to change aboard the United Federation of Planets Star Ship _Republic_."

"Some of you are already aware of the shame that _Republic_ has had heaped upon her by officers and crew who were unprepared and ill-equipped to handle an unexpected tragedy. Mistakes were made, and the errors were compounded. And through it all, more than one hundred Star Fleet officers and NCOs, graduates of the Academy and mustangs alike; they stood by and let it happen. Because we have made them so comfortable they had forgotten that a Star Fleet officer must also be resolute. We must be resolute in spirit, in physique, in our mental capacity to accept and cope with the challenges and the dangers that lie out THERE!" His voice boomed across the auditorium as he pointed towards the ceiling and the unseen infinity of space beyond.

Matt paused and he looked across the rapt, horrified audience sitting before him, his face stern and stoic.

"NO MORE. Senior Chief Callaghan!"

A grizzled and stocky non-commissioned officer snapped to his feet. "SIR!"

"You and I have served together before, haven't we?"

"YES SIR."

"And we served upon a good, well-found ship?"

"AN EXCELLENT SHIP, SIR."

"Our new ship, the _Republic_, has shamed herself, has shamed our Star Fleet."

"MOST SHAMEFUL, SIR."

"But we will fix that. We will restore her to a proud ship."

"VERY PROUD, SIR."

"We will make her once again a fine ship!"

"THE FINEST, SIR."

"And that proud ship, that fine ship, it will have the best crew in Star Fleet."

"THE VERY BEST, SIR, EVEN IF YOU HAVE TO PUT YOUR BOOT UP OUR ASS, SIR."

"We will redeem our ship in the eyes of the Federation; we will restore her honor!"

"AN HONORABLE REDEMPTION INDEED, SIR."

Matt nodded and Callaghan sat back down.

"Right now, there are two hundred and fifty-four crewmen aboard that ship. Crewmen that no vessel in the Fleet wants to claim because of the cloud suspended over their heads. Crewmen who are crushed by what their ship has done. By what they did and did not do; by how their officers and leaders _failed_ them in a time of crisis."

"It is my job, and it is your job, to restore to those crewmen their sense of worth; their pride; their confidence. It is our job, so make certain that they realize they have the ability to accomplish their duty when everything around them is going to hell."

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is one job we had best get RIGHT."

"Department heads, stand."

Five humans, a trill, and a tellarite stood. "Commander Natantael Malik, Engineering; Commander Quincy Talbot, Medical; Lt. Commander Amanda Tsien, Science; Lt. Commander Pavel Roshenko, Tactical; Lt. Commander Grace Biddle, Operations; Lieutenant Erwin Beck, Star Fleet Marines, Security; Lieutenant Pok Khar'tess, Logistics."

"Ladies and gentlemen, these officers will enforce Star Fleet regulations and my will upon you. Or I will have their heads along with yours for adding to my frustrations. And if you prove too hard-headed and stubborn for the department heads to handle, then you will be paid a visit by my executive officer. Commander?"

The Andorian walked over and stood by Matt on the stage, and he smiled—a terrifying smile—at the assembly.

"Commander Chan Shrak. He will maintain discipline and he will ensure that _Republic_ redeems herself; that each you will strive your upmost to redeem her."

"And if you are not afraid of him, then you will come to _me_. And understand this: I will command _Republic_; there will be no committee or council. And if you screw up bad enough to come to my attention, then you will find yourself sitting in the brig or transferred off my ship to man the most remote, isolated, hard-luck outpost in the Federation!"

"If you think that perhaps this assignment is too much for you to handle, then speak to the officers outside and request a transfer! If you are lacking in character and spirit and energy, then by all means, get the Hell off my ship!"

"But if you want to be a member of the finest crew in Star Fleet history—if you want to _make_ this ship and this crew the finest in Star Fleet history, then welcome aboard."

"There are several officers waiting outside this briefing room, ladies and gentlemen. They have your exact department and division assignments. We board ship at 0600 hours tomorrow morning. Our crew—all two hundred and fifty-four of them—are waiting on board to see what kind of officers they will receive. And I hope, I pray, that _some_ of you might become the kind of officer that they—and the Federation—deserve."

"Dismissed."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Matt shook his head as he grimaced at the manner in which emergency supplies had just been _piled_ into the locker located within Deflector Control. "Mister Roberts," he said softly as he backed out of the cramped compartment. "Would say that this is a _satisfactory_ means of storing vital equipment?"

The ensign opened his mouth, and then he closed it, and then he opened it again, and closed it. But no sound emerged.

"I am waiting, Mister Roberts."

"N-no, Sir."

"Very good, Mister Roberts," Matt whispered as he leaned close to the very young man. "I would suggest then, that you take charge of the personnel Star Fleet has given you the responsibility of, Mister Roberts, and that you get this compartment squared away!"

The ensign flinched, and he nodded vigorously. "Yes, SIR! I will do it immediately, sir!"

Matt sighed. "No, Mister Roberts, _you_ will not. _You_ will _supervise_ these crewmen, who will repack these supplies and equipment, regulation fashion and within the next twenty minutes. After that, you will see Mister Pok and you will draw cleaning supplies from him. And following that, your crewmen will clean Deflector Control until it is utterly spotless, a task which I do not expect to take more than two hours to accomplish. The grime and grease on these consoles is unconscionable, Mister. And there is dust _inside_ the primary and secondary _and_ tertiary isolinar chip arrays that control the Main Deflector."

"But . . . but we've only had seven hours to prepare for this inspection, Sir!" the Ensign protested, leaving unsaid that he had only boarded ship seven hours ago.

Matt took a step backwards and glared harshly at the men and women assigned to Deflector Control. "Is that true? All of this would have been cleaned and restored to good order if you had only been given an adequate amount of time to do so? Come, now, ladies and gentlemen, you are free to answer."

Utter silence rang through the compartment, and Matt nodded, even as Chan Shrak tried hard to keep from laughing at his side.

"Mister Roberts. Perhaps this is the first occasion in which you have had contact with the real universe instead of the manicured grounds of the Academy. Life is not fair. The universe does not care whether or not you have been on the job for seven minutes or seven hours or seven decades. And quite frankly, neither do I. This station is under _your_ command; it is _your_ responsibility to ensure that it is up to _my_ standards, Mister Roberts. The blame is not only for you, but also includes these men and women," Matt continued as he waved a hand at the crewmen standing at attention, "who have failed for what appears to be _weeks_, if not _months_, to carry out their assigned tasks. If any of them are insubordinate or fail to follow your orders, Mister Roberts, then you are to report it immediately to Lt. Commander Biddle, the head of your department. If she fails to properly motivate these crewmen, Mister Roberts, you will then report it to Commander Shrak here. And if I ever enter this compartment, and find it this slovenly and criminally ill-prepared, I swear by all that is Holy I will have your entire section dishonorably discharged from the Star Fleet!"

"Two hours, and I expect for this compartment to be sterile enough for Doctor Talbot to perform emergency surgery on the deck. Is that understood, Mister Roberts?"

"Sir! Yes, sir!"

"Carry on then," Matt ordered as he turned and left the control room, Shrak beside him. As the doors slid shut, Chan Shrak chuckled.

"You are on the verge of giving yourself a stroke, Captain Dahlgren. Perhaps you missed your calling in life; although I cannot recall the last time I saw an advertisement for the employment of a Spanish Inquisitor."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes. So far, I have not had to do anything except appear to be _slightly_ saner than you. It is quite refreshing to be thought of as the more restrained and subtle personage for once in my career."

"What's next on the list?"

"Security and the Small-Arms Locker. How's the leg after covering most of the length of the ship's corridors for the past seven hours?"

"It hurts."

"Perhaps you need to see Doctor Talbot—he might have something for the pain."

"I'll live."

"Well, that _is_ a pity. I've always yearned to command a crew of pink-skins."

The two rounded a corridor and spotted the sealed door to the Security Office, an armed Marine standing at parade rest on guard duty outside. Spotting the Captain and Exec, he snapped to attention, and whispered quietly into his com-badge.

"As you were," Matt said, and the burly crewman relaxed slightly. "Corporal . . . Thiesman? Correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"What do you think of our merry little ship, Corporal?"

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Granted."

"It is lax. Before our team boarded, there were no guards posted in engineering, the bridge, or on the small-arms locker. As per your orders, we relieved the crewmen previously assigned to Security and instituted a proper ship-board security watch. The storage condition of the small arms was sh- . . . well, it was disorganized and the weapons were not properly cleaned and maintained before being placed in storage. The security logs are incomplete. The brig and our quarters are so filthy that a pigsty looks clean. And the crew's attitude is fu- . . . unhelpful. Sir."

"That is one of these reasons that I asked Admiral Parker for Star Fleet Marines to handle Security, Corporal. We'll get her ship-shape and Bristol-fashion right quick, Corp."

"Aye, aye, Sir. That we will."

"Carry on."

Matt and Chan walked into the Security office, where they found a dozen Marines scrubbing every surface, and four more working with disassembled phasers. One of the Marines bellowed, "Officer on Deck!" and immediately all of them stood at attention. Lieutenant Erwin Beck emerged from his private office and nodded. "Skipper, we've got a problem."

"As you were," Matt said as he followed the Marine officer into his office. The slender man sighed and ran his hand through his thinning hair as he sat and brought up the arms logs. "We're short eleven hand phasers. According to the armory logs, we should have two hundred hand phasers, all Type I and Type II, stored in the small-arms locker, the shuttles, and a dozen security-locked local access points placed strategically throughout _Republic_. But an actual hand count only accounted for one hundred and eighty-nine."

"Any trace of them in the security logs, Lieutenant?" asked Chan.

"No sir. But the logs are incomplete and improperly filled out. I don't have a record of any phasers being assigned to the away teams _Republic_ beamed down to Omicron Cygnii II. That could account for them, but since they weren't logged out . . ." the Marine shrugged. And Matt nodded in agreement.

"Then officially they never left the ship. We haven't discovered any stray phasers, either Lieutenant; we have gone through all of the crew quarters and most of the ship's compartments on this inspection. For now, go ahead and log them as missing and I will get Admiral Parker to sign off on them."

The Marine looked pained. "I have never had a weapon for which I was responsible go missing, Skipper. This . . . _mess_ is something that I never imagined I would see in Star Fleet, Sir; not even in my worst nightmares. Perhaps we should import about thirty Drill Instructors from the Corps Basic Training."

"That's what we are here for, Erwin. To clean up another crew's mess. Other than that snafu, how does Security look?"

"I'll get it under control—and by the end of the day, Sir. I do have some concerns over the state of our issued arms—most of the hand phasers aboard _Republic_ are the Type I and Type II models dating back to the late '50s, mixed in with older units whose serial numbers indicate they were built as far back as 2327; we have none of the more modern and powerful units. In addition, there isn't a single Type III phaser rifle, not even an antique, aboard ship." The Marine chuckled. "But we do have two photon mortars and four dozen shells."

Matt blinked. "Weren't those retired twenty years ago?"

"Yes, sir, they were, sir. And while the shells have passed the diagnostics and appear to have been properly stored, they are all at least thirty years old. None have a loaded matter-antimatter charge, and I would prefer not to test them with a live charge, if we can avoid it, Captain."

"Write this all up and send a copy to my yeoman, Erwin. Collect all hand phasers from the storage sites and shuttles and we'll replace them with newer models from Spacedock before we depart on our shakedown cruise. As for the mortars . . . turn them in," Matt said reluctantly. "I don't trust thirty-year old photon shells either, Lieutenant. I'll make certain that Spacedock sends us some rifles as well."

"Aye, aye, Sir; I'll append a wish list of what all we need for a proper armory as well."

Matt and Chan walked—well Matt limped—to the nearest turbolift, with Chan Shrak shaking his head. "I don't know whether to laugh or cry, Captain Dahlgren. Has Admiral Parker give us a launch date yet?"

"Not yet, Chan. But I want this crew pushed—and pushed _hard_. You keep on top of the officers, and make _certain_ they stay on the crew. Act like we have only a day or two before shakedown, act like a madman if you have to, but I want this ship ready for space—I want the _crew_ ready for space—in 72 hours."

"We will get it done, Captain Dahlgren."

Matt gave his XO an exhausted smile and clapped him on the shoulder. "I know you will, old friend."

"Medical is on the way to the bridge, you know, pink-skin."

The Captain snorted. "Talbot would order me to bed with a hefty dose of sleeping pills and pain meds. I've got paperwork waiting in my ready room. See you on the bridge?"

"Yes, sir, after I finish checking on Engineering. Commander Malik wanted to speak with me about some of his concerns—although considering the usual chaotic nature of the Trill homeworld, why should he find this ship so very different."

The turbolift arrived and Matt stepped in. "Let me know if it is anything serious, Chan. I'll be in my ready room."

"Bridge," he ordered the computer as the doors whistled shut.

*************************************

Lt. Commander Amanda Tsien was still giddy about having been appointed as a command-level Department Head! In the modern Star Fleet, there simply _weren't_ any command-level Science officers anymore. Not outside of dedicated science research vessels such as the _Mediterranean_-, _Nova_-, or _Oberth_-class ships. There hadn't been for decades. But the Captain wanted that position, and so it came to pass that she was now the officer directly in charge of all _Republic_s various science teams and labs. She made a couple of annotations in the mid-watch log, and then sat back again. He was strange, the Captain. So many of ideas were anachronistic and outdated—like the notion that _Republic_ would maintain around the clock standard watches even though she was berthed in Spacedock! Other ships just had a station-keeping watch, but the Captain had mandated otherwise.

She shivered and swore she could just make out the fog of her breath. She looked up from the Captain's chair set in the very center of the large and expansive bridge and gazed longingly at the environmental controls. But the Captain had locked out all non-authorized access. She shivered against the chill, and shook her head, remembering earlier this evening (last night!) when she asked him why the ship was so bloody cold!

"Amanda, the chill is good for the crew. Most Star Fleet ships maintain a temperature of 25-degrees centigrade in all compartments—we are not most Star Fleet ships. _Republic_ will maintain a temperature of 20-degrees centigrade in all compartments except personnel quarters. It will help the crew maintain focus and stay awake on long boring duty shifts—such as your watch. Good night, Lieutenant Commander."

Bloody martinet! She knew—intellectually, at least—that it wasn't really cold. But it certainly felt that way. When she had been dragged out of her advanced course at the Academy she hadn't expected . . . well, to be truthful, she hadn't exactly known _what_ to expect. She had never before been assigned to a ship as old as the _Republic_, and she certainly would not have been surprised to find hammocks and an oak deck. She shook her head, well, maybe not _quite_ that antiquated. But, despite the ship's age, something about the layout of the bridge and the vessel just _felt_ right. And her current seat—the Captain's seat—did provide a sense of power and authority that the modern benches lacked.

Her quarters were smaller and more spartan than younger ships, but she had discovered that everything worked—and that the more compact space had required little effort on her part to decorate to her tastes. She chuckled to herself, and then forced the chuckle away as two crewmen half turned to look at her. Her last tour aboard the _Nebula_-class _Chesapeake_ she had spent _two weeks_ finding exactly the appropriate décor for the three rooms she had been assigned.

Still, despite the tyrant of a Captain and the sudden change in assignment, Amanda was inordinately pleased with herself. She finished the changes to the log and entered it in the ship's database, looking up at the clock over the main viewer. 0302 hours, and all is well on the good ship _Republic_.

The turbo-lift doors swished open and Amanda looked up in surprise as the Captain and Commander Shrak stepped onto the bridge. She stood in puzzlement.

"I have the conn," the Captain said.

"The Captain has the conn," she answered firmly, stepping aside as he seated himself.

"Lieutenant Commander Tsien, please take over the tactical console," Matt asked as he pulled up the ship's log and read over what she had entered. She noted that he promptly entered the change of watch on the log as she crossed over the bridge behind him and took up station at tactical.

"Sound General Quarters and set Red Alert throughout the ship."

She jerked; her jaw dropped. What the . . . we are in _Spacedock_! "Sir?"

The Captain rotated his chair and smiled at her. "Amanda. Sound General Quarters and set Red Alert throughout the ship."

She glanced across at Commander Shrak and saw that he was holding an antique stop watch in his hand, and he nodded affirmatively at her.

"Aye, aye, Sir. Sounding General Quarters and setting Red Alert throughout the ship," she said quietly as the klaxons began to wail. Commander Shrak pushed a button and started keeping track of the elapsed time.

"Very well," the Captain said as he rotated the chair back to its forward position. "Inform me the exact moment that all compartments report manned and ready for action."

"Aye, aye, sir," Amanda answered.

Officers began to jog onto the bridge, from the ramps at the rear that led down to Deck 2 and the two turbolifts both. Most looked sleepy, exhausted, and utterly bewildered at what possible event could send them to Red Alert while berthed in Spacedock.

One by one, the compartments on the ship's Master Systems Display changed color, and finally, she was able to report. "Captain, all compartments report manned and ready for action."

Commander Shrak hit another button on the stop-watch and shook his head. "Four minutes and twenty-seven seconds, Captain Dahlgren."

The Captain frowned and hit a stud on the side of his chair. "All hands, this is the Captain speaking. Four minutes and twenty-seven seconds is an utterly unacceptable time for this vessel to button up for combat operations. You _will_ do better. Lieutenant Commander Tsien, cancel Red Alert, please."

She did so.

"This has been a drill. I am not at all pleased with your response time. A proper response time for a _Korolev_-class starship is seventy-one seconds by the book, ladies and gentlemen. You just took nearly four times longer. That is unacceptable on its face, and a disgrace to your status as Star Fleet officers and crew. Since we are now all awake, and time is a very finite resource, all off-duty personnel will report to Cargo Bay 1 for today's work assignments. Among them will be further drills on how to properly respond to the sounding of Red Alert. Third watch remain at your stations. All other personnel, report to Commander Shrak in Cargo Bay 1. That will be all."

The Captain stood. "Lieutenant Commander Tsien, you have the conn." He said as he limped over the turbolift.

"Aye, aye, Sir," she whispered as the doors closed. Oh dear God, she thought. What have I gotten myself into?


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"I cannot begin to thank you enough, Admiral," Matt said as he limped over to Josiah Parker's table in the private dining hall of Star Fleet Command. "Bad morale? Crew are just out of sort? Hah! That ship is a disaster, and it is the crew from Hell. Sir."

Parker's fork stopped half-way to his mouth, and he sighed and he sat the steaming bite-sized morsel of a tender piece of fillet down back down on his china plate. "You do know this lounge is for Flag Officers and their invited guests only, correct, Captain Dahlgren?"

"Yes, sir. Commodore Jurood was kind enough to put me on the list as his guest for today, after I discovered you were in here having dinner."

Josiah patted his lips with the napkin and placed it on the plate. "Ok, ok, Matt. Take a seat."

Dahlgren sat. "What aren't you telling me, Sir?"

"Damn it, Matt. You are certainly the same balls-to-the-walls, damn-the-torpedoes officer you were before _Kearsage_ went down. If only Edward were here to see what his protégée had become, God rest his soul."

"Admiral Jellico was a good officer, Josiah," Matt whispered. "And don't forget, you served under him _Republic_ a long time ago as well."

The Admiral nodded glumly. "Why the hell did you think I wanted you in command of her, Matt? One of us has to carry on in his place, and I can't do it—not after getting this job I am in now."

"Look. You know how ill-prepared Star Fleet was before Wolf 359 gave the politicians and bureaucrats a kick in the ass. And you how long it took Jellico and Shelby and Shran and the rest to get the reforms out to the Fleet. Well, there was a general feeling at Headquarters that the best way to get the Fleet up to par was to remove the delinquent elements: to put them somewhere that they couldn't screw up getting ready for the Borg."

"I don't how she was chosen—it was before my time as Chief of Star Fleet Operations, Matt—but _Republic_ was one of the ships that our problem children got sent to. And she was given milk runs where there was little chance of her running into a crisis of any sort. She wasn't the only ship in that state, but hell, she was the only ship you and I ever served on."

"The goal was to slowly get rid of the bad apples, but events moved too fast. And the officers who were given command of these ships weren't the best—because we needed the best on the front lines. And over time, the bad got worse, even as the rest of the Fleet got better. That is when Star Fleet Command dropped any pretense at reform and used these ships as a purgatory to send officers and crewmen who screwed up by the numbers."

"We ran into the Dominion, and their Founders replaced Chancellor Martok and the Changeling convinced the Klingons to invade the Federation. We were at war, Matt. And Star Fleet Command didn't have time for a ship full of misfits. Or a dozen ships full of misfits, as long as they didn't interfere with the war effort."

"Thankfully, we managed to stop the Klingons and recover the real Martok—but then the Dominion invaded in force—a fact that you know all too well. Well, the war is over now, and I got promoted and have to deal with the aftermath and try to pick up all pieces and make Star Fleet whole again."

"Yes, I learned about _Republic_ shortly after I become Chief. And, yes, I sent Linda Bates out there to try and get them back up to standards—but then she was killed. By a damn civilian shield generator that overloaded, for god's sake! And that imbecile Harrison nearly started a war with the Gorn. Matt, I've got two choices here: either we rehabilitate that crew or we discharge them. And if we discharge them, I don't have enough personnel to send her back to space—we would have to mothball _Republic_. And the other ten ships out there like her."

"So what I need to know, Captain Dahlgren, is this: can you turn _Republic_ around or not?"

Matt sighed and he sat back. "You do like throwing an old friend off the deep end, don't you?"

The two men just sat there for a few minutes, and then Matt slowly nodded. "It won't be pretty."

Josiah snorted. "You mean like she is now?"

"I'll need a free hand—and if I determine that a crewman can't be salvaged, he's gone."

"Done."

"I'll need sixty blank personnel transfer orders, signed and authorized by your office."

"SIXTY?" the Admiral thundered, causing other flag officers and guests to turn around and stare at the table.

Matt smiled. "Once we leave Spacedock, Admiral, if I find someone I need in my crew aboard a Starbase, an outpost, or another Starship, I don't want to have to check back in with your office to obtain the authorization to transfer them aboard. And if it is a nonspecific transfer order—authorizing me to grab excess crew or officers—do you think any commanding officer is going to give me their best? They'll hand me their worst—and you know they will. I want blank transfers, signed and authorized, that I can fill in at need."

The Chief of Star Fleet Operations leaned back in his seat, and then he picked up his glass of wine and took a long swallow. "Done. Anything else?"

"There is one last issue, Admiral. The ship needs a challenge—milk runs are too routine and boring to capture the imagination of the officers and men. She needs to be pushed to her limits so that the crew can remember _why_ they joined the Star Fleet in the first place."

"Is she ready for that?"

"No. But, if you keep putting her in safe areas, you are only reinforcing the crew's beliefs about how Star Fleet considers them. They will become even more convinced that they aren't really Star Fleet and that the rules don't apply to them."

"I don't need another incident like Omicron Cygnii II, Matt."

"You won't have one. I promise you that, at least."

"Talk about sink or swim, Matt. Good god, man—you just said the crew isn't ready for this!"

"It all boils down to this, Admiral: do you trust me to keep the ship together and build up that crew into something Star Fleet can be proud of, or not. _Republic_ needs this—the _crew_ needs this. I don't think they believe me when I say we are going back out to the frontiers."

"Ok," Josiah said. "I'll back your play, Matt. But I hope you know what the Hell you are doing."

So do I, Matt thought, so do I.

************************************************** *******

"I'm still showing a fault in the focus software," Chris Roberts said as he frowned at the display. "We need to do a full diagnostic of the system; this shouldn't be happening."

The ensign looked up from his station after he realized that none of his personnel had replied. "Ah, fellows? Let's get cracking on this."

Slowly, the crewmen began to bend back down over their consoles and pull up the schematics—they still didn't answer him, but Roberts just swallowed. This was his first assignment out of the Academy—maybe these Fleet types more about how ships operated in the field than he did. He didn't push them.

Suddenly, his screen blanked, and then came back on—and the fault was gone. "What just happened?" he asked.

"I fixed the fault for you, Mister Roberts," drawled one of the crewmen, who leaned his chair back and closed his eyes again. "You have a problem with that?"

Chris frowned. There hadn't been time for the diagnostic to run its routine . . . he sucked in his breath. "Channing, you cut out the primary circuits! This is the _secondary system_."

"Yeah. Look, Mister Roberts, our shift ends in five minutes. If we run the diagnostics, then we have to stick around and fix the problem. I've had it up to here with working in my off-duty hours, so there is no way in hell I'm going to volunteer for more."

"It's our job to fix the fault!" pleaded Roberts.

"Look, the secondary is on-line, the deflector is at 100%, and if it goes bad, well that is why we have a tertiary system. Next watch will fix the fault and we'll all be happy."

Roberts gaped, and he started to speak again when the ship's intercom suddenly came to life.

_"Ensign Roberts, report to the Operations Office. Ensign Roberts, report to the Operations Office."_

Channing winced. "Why that gimp captain can't use com badges like every other person in Star Fleet is beyond me. That damn thing has been going off all day."

The young man looked pained at this description of their captain, but the crewmen assigned to Deflector Control with him only laughed.

"Best you get a move on, there, Mister Roberts," drawled Channing. "Momma Biddle won't like having to wait on a snot-nosed kid taking too long."

Confused about what he should do, Roberts shook his head and he exited the compartment.

"How long do you think this shit will continue, Pete?" another crewman asked Channing.

"Until the gimp wises up and learns that Star Fleet ain't gonna use us for jack. There's no sense in doing more than we absolutely have to—he'll get tired and either retire or lose it like Harrison did. Either way, no skin off of my nose."

Channing and the others sat upright as they heard a dull THUD coming from the base of the ladder up to the deflector dish actuator systems a deck above.

"Is that so?" asked a man that Channing that instantly recognized, causing him to sit up quickly.

"Hi, COB," he called out to Chief Callaghan. "We were just finish . . ."

"I know what you were doing, Channing. And I don't care for it."

"Look, Chief," Channing began.

"Senior Chief!" interjected Callaghan, _Republic_s Chief of the Boat, her senior non-commissioned officer.

"Whatever. We've got a routine—and we ain't gonna disrupt it because the new captain has got his panties in a wad."

Callaghan smiled grimly. "Clear the compartment—everyone but Channing. And you stay your asses in the corridor outside until I call you back in."

One by one, the crewmen stood and left, leaving only Callaghan and Channing. "Crewman, I don't like your attitude," Callaghan said.

"Well, you'll get over it, won't you?"

"You're a real hard-case. A certified bad-ass spacer, am I right?"

"Yeah. And I don't think Roberts or you want a piece of me."

Callaghan shook his head. "Channing, you are too dumb. You are far too dumb to be standing there and saying things like that—why, it could be interpreted that you just threatened two superior officers. Things like that get you tossed in the brig."

"I've done brig time before—no big deal."

"Yes, you have. I checked your record, you see. And I am sure that you are thinking about how Star Fleet won't ship you off to a real starship, because no one wants you in their crew. You're thinking about how a transfer to a ground base just means you have more chances to pick up a willing sophont in a bar. You're thinking that neither this ship nor this captain can do a damn thing to you that would make you regret your words and your actions."

"Yeah. So what?"

Callaghan slammed his fist into Channing's belly and the crewman doubled over, his gasp for breath suddenly ending as Callaghan's knee smashed into nose. The crewman fell over and lay on the deck plates, bleeding.

"Ya bas'tad!" he squealed. "Ya cat do tat! Regs say ya cat do tat!"

"Screw the regs, Channing," Callaghan said as he hauled the crewman to his feet and buried his fist into the younger man's ribs. "You threatened me!" Punch. "You threatened Mister Roberts!" Punch. "You called the Captain a gimp!" PUNCH.

The Chief stepped back and released Channing's uniform—the rating fell to the deck again and didn't try to get up.

"Let me tell you something, Pete Channing. I served with Captain Dahlgren and I know exactly how he got that injury to his leg. He got it saving lives, you moron, including my own. So, no, Pete; you aren't going to the brig—you aren't getting a transfer off this ship. No sweetheart, you're ass is _mine_ and you belong to _me_ for the duration of your career. Or you can resign from Star Fleet; you've only got three months left on your enlistment. Hell, I would endorse that request."

Callaghan stood straight and tapped his comm badge. "Sick Bay. Medical emergency in Deflector Control."

"_En route_," answered a voice on the far end of the link.

"You see, Pete," Callaghan whispered as he knelt beside the battered crewman on the deck. "There are all sorts of regulations about how bad it is for someone to strike a superior officer—but there ain't one about a superior officer striking a subordinate. Now, you could press charges against me for conduct unbecoming or for criminal assault. And I could press charges against you for dereliction of duty as to your shutting down the primary array. Either way, I will get a slap on the wrist—or do you think the XO, our _Andorian_ XO, is going to toss me into a brig cell for slapping a piece of shit like you around?"

"The times, they are a-changing, Pete. And you better adapt real fast or you're gonna find yourself extinct. Real soon."

DING.

Matt didn't look up as his chime on his door sounded. "Come!" he barked.

The doors slid open and he heard footsteps, but he continued to frown at the computer screen, changing a few words in his latest readiness report to Admiral Parker, and then he saved the data and closed the unit. He raised his head and saw Ship's Counselor Trincullo standing in front of his desk.

"Take a seat, Counselor. I see that you did manage to locate your uniforms. Commander Shrak said that you requested to speak with me."

The woman sat. "Thank you for seeing me, Sir. I have been trying to do so for the past three days."

"In case you haven't noticed, Counselor, I have had precious little free time since we boarded ship. What's on your mind?"

"Sir, I think there has been an error in my assignment during alerts. I have been informed that I am assigned to Sick Bay under Doctor Talbot."

"Go on."

"Captain, I think it would be obvious. Tradition requires that the Ship's Counselor be stationed on the bridge to provide advice to the commanding officer. But I have been posted elsewhere. Thankfully, we are in still in Spacedock, since this antique vessel lacks a seat for me as well."

Matt leaned back and he frowned at the ship's counselor. "Doctor Andrea Trincullo. Age 34. Graduated Star Fleet Academy with a degree in Psychology, attended Star Fleet Medical where you received a medical doctorate in both Psychology and Psychiatry. Excellent grades in both institutions. You would have graduated top in your class at the Academy except for your poor marksmanship—it took you five attempts to pass basic phaser training. However, you do have a 3rd-degree black belt in Aikido. And you graduated third from Starfleet Medical."

Andrea's eyes went wide; he wasn't reading the data from a screen—the Captain had memorized it! But Matt pressed on, "Four postings to starships over the past ten years as a junior counselor for which you received a consistent string of Excellent ratings from your supervisors and commanding officers. Six months ago you received an invitation to attend Command School; instead you accepted a posting at Star Fleet Academy where you taught Intro to Psychology until Admiral Parker shanghaied you aboard _Republic_. Did I miss anything, Counselor?"

Andrea blinked! "How . . ."

"Did I know all of that? Doctor Trincullo, I have three hundred and eighty-one officers and crew assigned to my command. I have thoroughly gone over their records. Did I miss anything, Counselor?" Matt asked a second time.

"No, Sir."

"I wondered, since you marched in here and seem determined to be stationed on my bridge. Counselor, there are two types of officers and ratings assigned bridge duty: those officers and ratings who jobs _require _them to be on the bridge and those officers who are able to assume command. I mention this because I noticed that you have not attended Command School. You had the opportunity, but you refused, preferring instead to teach at the Academy."

"Captain, those requirements have been waived in the past . . ."

"Not aboard this ship, Counselor. You want a station on my bridge you have to be trained and ready to pick up the pieces if everything falls apart around you. You must be prepared to immediately step into my place or Commander Shrak's place and assume command of this vessel, with three hundred and eighty lives being just one of your many responsibilities. You are not so trained and I doubt that you have the command mentality."

"Sir, I resent that!"

"Resent it all you want, Counselor; I was not referring to your intelligence and capability—I was referring to your attitude. Here is a hypothetical: you are on the bridge, I am dead, Commander Shrak and Lt. Commander Biddle are undergoing emergency surgery in sick-bay. Luckily, _Republic_ destroyed the last of her attackers before you assumed command. Engineering reports heavy casualties and Commander Malik is gravely wounded; Lieutenant Bowen has assumed command of the engineering spaces. The warp core has been damaged and is only moments away from breach—but Bowen tells you that the core can be shut down. However, to do so will require a member of this crew to enter a compartment flooded with radiation, effectively committing suicide in order to save everyone else. You have fifteen seconds, Counselor—what are your orders?"

Trincullo blinked.

"Twelve seconds."

"Eject the core!" she shouted.

"Ejection mechanisms damaged and off-line. I'll still give you twelve seconds."

"Abandon ship."

"Congratulations, Counselor. Everyone is now dead. The life pods can't get far enough away in twelve seconds, even if they launched the instant you gave that order—which they won't."

"That is not a fair simulation, Captain . . ."

"On the contrary, Counselor, it is the type of decision that someone, somewhere in Star Fleet has had to make. It is a decision to deliberately sacrifice one or more members of the crew so that the rest of the ship's company and the ship herself survive. It is a decision that anyone sitting on that bridge, who pulls a watch in my chair, who wants the privileges of command has to be able to make in an instant. Matt shook his head. "No, Counselor. Your job is to keep this crew on an even keel while I command my ship. If you decide one day to opt for Command School, perhaps I will have a different answer, but for now your station will remain in Medical, assisting Doctor Talbot."

The woman squirmed in her seat, and Matt sighed. "Is there anything else?"

"Yes, sir. You are pushing the crew too hard. They aren't machines, and the stress you are putting them under is too much."

"Counselor, stress—believe it or not—is good. Stress and resistance is how we build our muscles, develop our bodies. And mentally, stress forces a being to focus, to learn to concentrate even when he might be distracted, to pay attention to his duties. The crew are all more resilient than you think—and the ones that are not? They don't belong here."

"Captain, some of them are on the verge of breaking. And not just crew—but you are pushing the NCOs and officers equally hard. Eighteen red alert drills in the past seventy-two hours? No one on this ship has had more than four hours of sleep each night—including you. All of the recreation facilities are shut down—the Holodecks require a command level override to activate. They are not used to this level of pressure. And, I have seen someone down in sickbay being treated for injuries. I think someone snapped and resorted to violence due to your stress test."

"Crewman Channing. Yes, I am aware of the situation."

"This could well be a sign that you are pushing them too far, Sir. Those types of injuries do not occur in a vacuum—they were deliberately inflicted!"

"Counselor, the rot on this ship is like gangrene: it has to be cut out, as painful as that may sound. As to Channing, I am aware of the situation and have been fully informed of the circumstances surrounding his beating. It will not happen again, I can assure you."

"You still need to a ratchet down the pressure, Captain," Trincullo continued. "The crew won't stand for much more."

"Counselor, we now have a deployment date for shake-down—and it is three days from today. In sixty-eight hours, to be precise, _Republic_ will exit Spacedock and we will conduct drills until the crew drops. Or they meet with my standards, whichever comes first. We will have three full weeks of drills and weapon tests and warp tests and emergency simulations and this crew will become proficient or they will be removed. I've got to know what their limits are, Counselor, and the only way for me to discover that is to push them."

Matt leaned forward in his seat and he propped his elbows on his desk. "Now, I want you to keep a close eye on them—don't baby them, don't coddle them, but make sure they are mentally stable. Can you do that?"

"Yes, sir," she answered glumly. "And speaking on that subject, Captain . . . how are you feeling?"

Matt laughed. "Oh, no, Counselor. Don't even try that. Now, if that is all, I have work I must get back to—and you have a crew to watch. You are dismissed, Counselor."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

"Captain Dahlgren," Shrak said from where he stood behind the Mission Ops console, "Spacedock has confirmed that we are cleared for departure; all sections, all compartments report they are prepared to get underway."

Matt swiveled his chair—god, how he had missed having a chair that _swiveled_!—to face his XO and he grinned. "Thank you, Mister Shrak. Signal our thanks to Spacedock and inform them that they may retract the gantry." He pressed a stud on the command chair he turned back to face the main viewer.

"_Engineering, Commander Malik_."

"Is everything ready down there, Mister Malik? All those gizmos and gadgets set properly and in and working order?"

A chuckle came over the intercom. "_Yes, sir; we've got a full tank, I've checked the oil, and sent a technician EVA to kick the tires_."

Matt smiled. "In that case, Commander, let's light some fires." He clicked the intercom off.

"Miss Montoya," he said to the young raven-tressed Lieutenant seated at the Helm. "Set reaction control thrusters to station-keeping. Miss Biddle," he continued to his Operations Officer sitting to the left of the helm, "disconnect all umbilicals and retract all moorings."

"Thrusters at station-keeping, aye," the helmsman replied, followed by Grace Biddle. "Umbilicals are disconnected and moorings are now retracted, Captain. We are now operating on internal power and gravity, inertial dampening field at 100% of rated capacity. Structural integrity field is . . . on-line."

"Ahead dead slow, Miss Montoya, thrusters only until we clear the berth."

"Ahead dead slow, thrusters only, aye."

"Main viewer ahead."

The main view screen began projecting an image of the interior of Spacedock. The vast anchorage within her sheltering hull was surprisingly empty. Perhaps not surprisingly, given the number of ship losses Star Fleet had suffered over the past few years, Matt thought with a wry grin. Still, he could make out two _Nebula_s and an _Intrepid_ docked in the distance.

"We have cleared the berth," Montoya announced.

"Thrusters ahead one-half, Miss Montoya, put us in the exit lane for departure."

"Thrusters ahead one-half, aye, aye, sir. Altering course heading to 039 Mark 186 . . . we are in the lane and ready for departure."

Matt watched as the massive shield doors slowly opened ahead of _Republic_ while the cruiser slid closer and closer. He leaned back in his chair, rested one elbow on an arm rest, and cradled his chin in that hand, rubbing his jaw as his ship slid through the massive opening.

"Captain," Montoya spoke up, "we have cleared space dock and are free to navigate."

"Very well. Set course for the Ceres Weapon Range, ahead one-quarter impulse power."

"Course set for Ceres, accelerating to one-quarter impulse power."

Matt grinned as _Republic _leaped forward, as if she were as eager to be back in space as he was.

************************************************** *******

_Republic_ banked and maneuvered hard among the asteroids of the belt, the main viewer showing her just clearing one massive rock as she streaked by at .25_c_.

"Miss Montoya, you bump one of those rocks with my ship, and I'll have them deduct the expense of the paint from your retirement credits."

"I'll try not to scratch her too badly, sir," she answered, never taking her eyes from her instrumentation. Her fingers flew across the controls as she varied the thrust from the twin impulse engines, combining with the reaction thrusters to give the ship extraordinary maneuverability for a vessel of her size. She handled more like a _Defiant_ than an _Excelsior_! The simulations weren't even close, she thought joyfully, as she skimmed the cruiser past and around another ship-sized rock.

"We are approaching the engagement area, Captain," Amanda Tsien called out from her science station. "The nickel-iron content in the asteroids are interfering with the mid-range sensors; we will be unable to get a targeting lock until we are within engagement range, Sir."

"Shall I reduce speed?" the helmsman asked.

"No, Miss Montoya—steady as she goes. Mister Roshenko, you will have two seconds to attain a target lock and engage four separate beacons with phasers. We will be maneuvering, so prepare to compensate."

"Aye, aye, sir," the tactical officer answered.

"Entering engagement area in five, four, three," Grace Biddle began counting down, "two, one!"

_Republic_ stood on her port side and passed between two converging pieces of stellar debris—the maneuver also unmasked her dorsal and ventral arrays to fire on separate beacons.

"Well done, Miss Montoya," Matt said warmly.

Golden beams flashed from the phaser array strips, lashing out towards the beacons at light-speed as Roshenko worked feverishly, adjusting his targeting locks on the fly. And then the ship cleared the range.

Matt waited as Shrak listened to the report coming through his earpiece from Ceres Station. The Andorian smiled.

"We fired seventeen bursts from the nine arrays—sixteen hit their targets, destroying all four beacons."

"Very nice, Mister Roshenko," Matt congratulated the sweating tactical officer. "Mister Shrak, inform Ceres that we will be making another pass as soon as they reset the range. Once only means we were lucky, ladies and gentlemen. And twice _might_ be coincidence; you do that _three_ times and we might be on the verge of becoming good."

Shrak grinned. "Ceres reports the range is reset and ready, Captain Dahlgren."

"Miss Montoya, bring us about—and increase thrust to maximum impulse power."

"Coming about, and increasing thrust to maximum impulse power," the helmsman said as the first beads of sweat began to appear on her forehead.

Let's see how well he does at .9_c_, Matt thought.

************************************************** ******

Turned out, Lt. Commander Roshenko did pretty well, even at the higher velocity. On the second pass, his crews scored eleven hits out of twelve shots, and on the third they hit seventeen times out of eighteen.

Matt swiveled his chair as Pavel cleared his throat. "Sir, I have discovered why the belly strip kept missing—the targeting calibration is off by 1.2%. I should have doubled checked it, Sir, but with the rush to get out of Spacedock . . ."

"How did you discover that it was out of alignment?" Matt asked, exchanging a glace with Shrak.

"The same strip just kept missing in each engagement, Sir. I ran a quick diagnostic, but nothing showed up, so I sent a team down to the array. The phaser stabilization system was not properly synced with the ship's gyroscope, sir. I should have checked it earlier."

"No, Mister Roshenko, it would have been fine earlier. I asked Mister Shrak to throw you a wrench in this exercise—a wrench you easily dodged. Well done."

"Captain, we are approaching the torpedo range," Grace Biddle called out.

"Very well, ladies and gentlemen. Let's blow up some rocks, shall we? Load warshots in tubes One through Five."

"Warshots, Captain?" asked Roshenko. Even Shrak raised an eyebrow and his antennae twitched.

"Warshots, Mister Roshenko. Admiral Parker signed off on their use yesterday. We are authorized to expend thirty live torpedoes in this exercise. And Mister Roshenko?"

"Sir?"

"We haven't fiddled with your targeting on this one. So don't miss."

"Captains Log, Stardate 53748.4, USS _Republic_. We are eleven days into the shake-down exercises in the outer system of Sol. The officers and crew are completely exhausted—I think I have pushed them as far and as hard as I can in such a short period. Despite that exhaustion, they are starting to reclaim a sense of pride among themselves, and are slowly become a unified crew and not a collection of individuals. My department heads have been commenting that the crew are no longer just standing around and half-heartedly carrying out orders. They move with a purpose now—perhaps a not very skilled purpose for some of them, but a drastic improvement nonetheless."

"Our latest series of readiness drills showed a response time of 69.6 seconds from the sounding of the alert klaxon to all compartments reporting manned and ready. Heh. When I told them that 71 seconds was considered standard for the _Korolev'_s, I didn't mention it was the standard for _Andorian_-crewed _Korolev_'s! The Fleet standard is 73 seconds, a time which they soundly beat. Because of their improvement on the latest drills, I have decided to dock the ship later today at Jupiter Station—and will grant the crew a 24-hour liberty call. This should placate Counselor Trincullo and her concerns about the pressure I am placing on these men and women."

"Crewman Channing has asked for permission to end his enlistment early—a request that I have heartily approved, with the endorsement of Commander Shrak, Lt. Commander Biddle, and Senior Chief Callaghan. He will be transferred off of _Republic_ and his discharge processed once we arrive at Europa. I remain concerned about Ensign Roberts and his lack of experience, however. Deflector Control is still under-performing, but perhaps without Channing's influence, he will be able to bring them up to par. Certainly, Lt. Commander Biddle believes that he is capable of turning that section around. Nonetheless, I plan on keeping a close watch on him—and if Jupiter Station has an experienced deflector specialist, I just might transfer him aboard to assist the Ensign."

"_Republic_ is still suffering from system faults throughout the ship; the result of several years of neglect and lack of proper maintenance. To date, none of the many glitches have resulted in injury or threatened the ship, but it is annoying to say the least. It is my belief, however, that we should have all major sub-systems cleansed of the gremlins by the end of her shake-down cruise—and Spacedock should be more than able to quickly complete the repairs we are unable to handle out of our own resources. We will perform the warp trials with a speed run to Alpha Centauri and back after our liberty call at Jupiter Station. Commander Malik assures me that he has been over the engines with a fine-toothed comb, but I will sleep easier once we successfully achieve warp."

Matt rubbed his eyes and yawned. "Computer, save log."

"Saved," the electronic voice replied. Matt slowly stood and limped to the bed set in the small sleeping compartment just off the main suite of the commanding officer, and he lay down. Within moments, he was fast asleep.

*******************************************************

"CHRIS!"

Chris Roberts stopped his meandering walk through the civilian sector of Jupiter Station and turned at the sound of his name being called. The young man smiled as he saw the gaggle of his friends from the Academy. One rather short, bubbly, and bouncing young blonde lady was waving exuberantly.

He walked over to them. "Lara, Jin, Hollis. Taking in the sights?"

The blonde nurse shook her head and grabbed Chris's arm. "Come on with us! We haven't seen you since we all got transferred onto _Republic_."

"I've had my hands full in Deflector Control. I'm the only officer down there, can you believe it? Both the other shifts are covered by petty officers, so I've had to pull double shifts to try and get things straightened out."

Lara frowned. "I heard you've had a rough time. Medical has been pretty standard—once Doctor Talbot had a talk with the sick-berth attendants. So what really happened with Channing?"

"He said he fell."

"Really?"

"Hey, that is what he said. I wasn't there at the time."

"But you've heard the scuttlebutt, right? About how Senior Chief Callaghan taught him a lesson about being mean to you?"

Chris blushed, as the other two ensigns began laughing.

"I-I don't think . . ." he stammered.

"Oh, I'm kidding!" Lara said as she poked him in the ribs. "But I did hear the Senior Chief gave him a lesson he won't forget anytime soon."

"I don't know, really. I'm just glad he's not aboard anymore."

The four of them walked through the Promenade looking at the various shops and stores that the station had offering trinkets and services to spacers. Suddenly, Chris felt a strong tug on his arm, and he turned to see Lara pointing at a pub—the Jupiter Yard.

"Let's go in!" she squealed.

Chris groaned. "Lara, we're officers; we're supposed to set an example."

"Oh don't be a spoil-sport, Chris, we aren't cadets anymore! And see, there are Star Fleet officers inside—just one drink, a drink to celebrate that we're finally in space!"

Despite his objections, Chris found himself strolling into the pub with his friends, as they laughed and talked their way up to the bar.

Jin Park slapped his hand on the bar. "A round for my friends, if you please!"

Silence greeted them, an oppressive silence. Slowly, the four stopped talking and laughing as they realized everyone in the place was glaring at them, from the blue-skinned bartender to the Star Fleet officers and crew sitting in booths along the walls and at tables spaced over the floor.

Chris began to feel uncomfortable, and he could see his friends were feeling the same. But then, one of the Jupiter officers stood up and walked over to the bar, finishing his mug of golden beer.

"Come on Frank," he said to the bartender, "these officers asked for a drink. Pour them up a round—and put it on my tab. Pour me one of those shots as well."

The Bolian nodded, threw a towel over one shoulder and took out five shot glasses, pouring an amber liquid in each. He set one glass down in front of each of the four Ensigns, and the fifth before the officer who spoke.

That officer picked up his glass. "A toast, Jupiters! A toast to the heroes of Star Fleet who go out into the unknown and put their own lives at risk! Join me in drinking with these men and women from the . . ."

"The _Republic_," Chris whispered, feeling the pit of his stomach drop.

"These gallant officers from USS _Republic_!" He stopped and looked at the four, none of whom had touched their glasses. "Or maybe, the courageous young officers from _Republic _don't want to drink with _us_. Which is only fair, Ensigns. Because my Jupiters don't seem to want to drink with you, either. Not after you fired upon a Gorn ship with no shields, with her weapons unpowered, sitting in a parking orbit with her engines down. Not after you abandoned a Federation Colony—and your own away team—when the Gorn responded in a fury."

"Ah, but what's a few hundred civilian lives, and the lives of your brother officers, after all. Drink up, _Republics_! Drink up, you've earned it. You started a fight you couldn't handle and then the whole lot of you ran and _kept_ running until you and your ship were safe—pity that the colonists and your away team couldn't run from the photon bombardment the Gorns used to kill them all."

The speaker sat down his glass and he spat into the liquid. "On second thought, I don't think I will share a drink with you. Jupiters! We are leaving. Let these cowards have the bar to themselves."

One by one, the Star Fleet officers and NCOs stood and walked out, each one glaring at the Ensigns in turn. Finally, the Bolian named Frank locked up his liquor supply and he too left the bar. Chris swallowed, and he hit his comm badge. "Roberts to _Republic_. Four to beam up."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

The bridge was quiet and subdued as _Republic_ departed from Jupiter Station. Not quiet with focus, but rather quiet with harsh self-reflection. Matt frowned. He hadn't been surprised by the reports from the men and women returning from their liberty; indeed, he had expected precisely that attitude by the civilians and crew aboard the Star Fleet base. But, he had decided against leaving the station early—and made certain that _every_ man and woman aboard _Republic_ visited the station during their twenty-fours in orbit.

The turbolift doors whistled open and Matt saw three newcomers to the ship step uneasily upon the bridge, and the corner of his lips twitched. Now those are three _very_ unhappy people, he thought. The captain turned his attention back to the main viewer, and pressed a stud on his command chair. In response, a whistle sounded throughout the ship over the intercom systems.

"This is the captain speaking," he broadcast. "You have all now seen, first-hand, exactly how our fellow Star Fleet personnel and civilians view _Republic_ and her crew. Ambassador Delena Mar, of Argellius II, has gone so far to propose to the Federation Council that this ship should be recalled to Spacedock and be decommissioned in disgrace. Ladies and gentlemen, that will not be happening. Over the past two weeks, I have pushed you to the breaking point—and you have survived. You have thrived, and you have improved your skills to the point where this ship is almost ready for deployment."

"Many of you—most of you—had little to do with the events that have blackened our ship's reputation, our own reputations. I have heard whispers about how this is unfair, and I have seen the shame and the guilt that you share with each other over our ship's past. It _is_ unfair, and in a perfect universe, it would not be. We do not live in a perfect universe, ladies and gentlemen. We live in the _real_ universe."

"Did you like the stares and the snide remarks and the whispered comments behind you backs on Jupiter Station? Do you enjoy being tarred as the officers and men who abandoned a Federation Colony to their deaths? Do you feel pride at having the reputation only as a crew of screw-ups and misfits and beings that cannot be trusted a on a _real_ Federation Starship?"

"I don't."

"You are probably asking yourselves, what is the Old Man going to do about this? How is he going to fix this? Ladies and gentlemen, I'm not."

"_I_ cannot fix _Republic_; _I_ cannot change the opinion of others; _I_ cannot make the universe perfect."

"I have done what I can in trying to make you remember why you first joined Star Fleet. I have made you stand up straight and tall, and I have pushed you to your upmost limits to remind you that you _can_ do your job. I cannot do more. Only you can."

"The time has come for each of you sapient beings to make your _own_ decision. Are you going to let those sanctimonious bastards from Jupiter Station and others who think like they do determine how high _you_ hold your own head? Are you going to live _down_ to their expectations or live _up_ to your own worth? Are you going to let our ship be shuffled from one miserable assignment to the next, crawling on our bellies so that no one notices her name? Or will _you_ redeem her?"

"I cannot do this for you. You have to choose, ladies and gentlemen. You can whine and cry and mope around in depression because you now know how the universe looks on _Republic_ and her crew. Or you can change how they look at us. It won't be easy and it sure as Hell won't happen overnight. But if _you_ want to remove the dishonor heaped upon you, if _you_ want to cleanse the shame of this ship's actions at Omicron Cygnii II, if _you_ want to wipe away the stain on our reputations—I will back you. I will stand beside you. I will fight for you at the highest levels of Star Fleet and against station commanders that allow the crap you were coated with on Jupiter Station."

"Yes, you are angry—and you have every right to be angry. _I am angry_. And if you feel like you can't handle that anger and that shame and the guilt that you feel, talk to Counselor Trincullo. That is what she is here for—to help you, to help me, to bring this ship back from the precipice of that yawning Abyss before us. Oh, it would be easier to go ahead and fall, to no longer care what anyone thinks about this ship, thinks about us. It would be easier to become the caricatures which they imagine us to be."

"I will not walk that path. And I do not want one single soul aboard _Republic_ who is willing to accept that shame. We are in this together now—all of us have been painted with the same broad brush. Whether we show the universe that we are better than that, ladies and gentlemen, that remains to be seen. I won't promise we will convince everyone—there are people out there who will always assume the worst, who prefer the simple version of condemning this ship and her crew. There are people out there who will spit on you in twenty years, once they learn you served aboard _Republic_, and nothing will change the opinions of those close-minded bigots. But there are also men and women of all races, across this United Federation of Planets who will give you and this ship a second chance—if you show them they are wrong!"

"It is up to you now. Your future is in your own hands. Stand by for warp drive test. Dahlgren out."

Matt flicked the comm stud to the off position and he glared at the three men who still stood in front of the turbolift. "You are no doubt asking yourselves what the Hell did I do to deserve this? You didn't do anything, gentlemen. I needed officers and crew with your skills, but you are now one of us. A member of this crew, so get over being upset about it. Lieutenant Grissom, report to Commander Malik in engineering. Crewman Zapata, Commander Shrak will show you to the computer interface here on the bridge—_Republic_ has been suffering faults in several systems; the diagnostics and physical examination of the hardware has revealed nothing. We believe the problem is in the software of the computer cores—and I need a crack computer tech like you to get into the guts of the system, track down the problem, and _fix_ it."

"Chief Bronson, it is my understanding that you are perhaps one of the best deflector techs in Star Fleet. I have an officer running Deflector Control, a nugget just out of the Academy. Can you get him and his section squared away?"

Bronson smiled thinly. "Yes, sir; I've worked with several young officers before and I think I can."

"Good. Gentlemen, you may regard this assignment as the worst in the Fleet. Frankly, I don't care. You are here because I need you and I need your experience. And now that you are part and parcel of this motley crew, I would suggest that you suck it up and bring this ship up to my standards. Yeoman Sinclair will direct you to your quarters and get you settled in, then report to your stations. Dismissed."

********************************************************

"Captain, we have cleared the warp safety perimeter of Jupiter," Isabella called out from the helm.

Matt didn't look up from the log entry he was entering. "Thank you, Miss Montoya. Mister Shrak, set Yellow Alert and prepare for Warp speed."

"Aye, aye, Sir. Setting Yellow Alert. All hands, this is the XO—prepare for warp speed," he paused, and then looked up from his console. "_Republic _is ready for warp test, Captain Dahlgren."

"Very good, Mister Shrak. Miss Montoya, come to heading 177 Mark 42 on course for Alpha Centauri A and take us to Warp speed."

"Aye, aye, Sir. Coming about to heading 177 Mark 42 on course for the Alpha Centauri system. Warp engines are coming on-line . . . now."

Matt looked up at the view screen as _Republic _shot forward warping space and time around her as she bypassed the physical realities of her universe.

"Holding steady at Warp Factor 1," announced Commander Shrak.

"Increase speed to Warp 6, Miss Montoya—smartly, now."

"Aye, aye, Sir," the helmsman answered as she began to slowly increase the power being fed into the nacelles from the warp core. Matt looked down at the repeater display mounted on the arm of his command chair, and slowly nodded as the numbers steadily climbed upward. He changed the display view and studied the warp field configurations for a moment, and then switched the display back. Shifting slightly in his seat, he toggled the intercom to engineering. "Mister Malik, how are we doing down there?"

"_We are doing just fine, Sir. Stress on the warp-field in within established parameters, the core is operating at 42% of rated capacity, and the temperature of the warp coils are well below their tolerances_."

"Prepare to take the core to 100%, Mister Malik. Inform me immediately if the core temperature or coil temperature begins to spike."

"_Aye, aye, Sir_," the engineer answered.

"Warp 9, Miss Montoya."

"Accelerating to Warp Factor 9, aye, aye, Sir."

Once again, the ship surged forward smoothly. Matt closed his eyes and concentrated on feeling the low-frequency thrum of the warp core through the ship's structure. Every ship—even two of the same class—responded slightly differently to warp speeds. But Matt remembered well how _Republic _had performed during his time aboard her as an Ensign and a junior Lieutenant. At last he opened his eyes and smiled, swiveling his chair to face Chan Shrak.

"We are holding steady at Warp 9, Captain Dahlgren,' the Andorian said crisply. "Hull vibration is very low, sir."

"She's always had a smooth ride, Chan," the Captain whispered. "Core temperature?"

"Within expected parameters, Sir."

"Very well. Miss Montoya, hold us at this speed for five minutes and then take her to maximum."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

As the minutes ticked by, Matt stood and limped over to Shrak's console. There was a slight rise in core temps, but the coils were still well within their limits. He clapped the XO on the shoulder and returned to his chair.

"Take us to maximum rated power, Miss Montoya," he said quietly.

"Aye, aye, Sir."

As _Republic _began accelerating past Warp 9, Matt began to feel a slight tremor through the ship's hull. Yes, just like he remembered, he thought.

"Warp 9.1," the helmsman called out as she focused on her instruments, "Warp 9.2 . . . 9.3 . . . 9.4 . . ." and the ship shuddered slightly, the bridge lights flickering.

Grace Biddle was bent over her own console. "Increasing power to main deflector dish to compensate, sir," she spoke up, and the ride smoothed out once again.

"Captain," Isabella said from her station, with a grin on her face. "We are now travelling at War 9.5, at 100% of the rated capacity of the warp core."

"Hold us at this speed for now, Isabella."

For one minute, then two, and three Republic pressed onward. Finally, Matt nodded, and he hit the comm stud to Engineering. "Mister Malik, your engines seem to be working."

"_That they are, Captain_," the clearly happy Trill's voice rang back through the intercom.

"And the core temp?"

"_Climbing slowly, but still well below the point of shutdown, Sir. I believe we can maintain this speed for at least two hours without difficulty_."

"Excellent. Remove the safeties and prepare to bring the core to 125% of rated power, if you please, Mister Malik."

There was a distinct pause over the intercom. "_Sir? Did I hear you correctly? You want me to discontinue the safety limiters and increase the fuel feed to the Warp Core to 125% of the rated maximum capacity_?"

"That is correct, Mister Malik."

"_I cannot recommend that course of action, Sir. Star Fleet Regulations prohibit exceeding 100% of power except in times of war_."

"I am aware of the regulations, Mister Malik and I will log your objections. Remove the safeties and prepare to take us to 125% power on the core."

"_Aye, aye, Sir_," the Trill answered slowly, and then Matt thumbed the intercom off again. "Miss Montoya, increase speed. Take her up until she won't go any faster or I tell you otherwise."

She stared at Matt, who nodded his head and cocked one eyebrow. Isabella blinked and she turned back to her console and began to slowly press the acceleration controls forward yet again. "Increasing warp power, aye, aye, Sir. Warp 9.6. . . 9.7 . . . 9.71 . . . 9.72 . . ."

"Warp core temperatures are climbing, Captain Dahlgren," interjected Chan Shrak. "Warp coil temperatures are approaching the caution zone as well, and still rising."

"Understood. Miss Biddle, have the Main Deflector increase power to maximum—I don't want us to hit a small rock at this velocity."

"Main Deflector is now at full power, Sir."

". . . 9.73 . . . 9.74 . . . 9.75 . . ."

_Republic _shuddered again and her ride was noticeably rougher.

". . . 9.751. . . 9.752 . . . 9.753 . . . 9.754 . . . holding at 9.754, Sir!" Isabella called out.

"Steady as she goes, Miss Montoya," Matt said as he activated a timer above the main viewer. "Maintain this speed."

The ship lurched, and Chan had to grab hold of his console to avoid being knocked off his feet. "Core and coil temperatures are still rising, Captain Dahlgren. We are now well into the caution zone and approaching recommended shutdown."

"Understood, Mister Shrak. Continue as you are, people."

The intercom beeped. "_Bridge, Engineering! The engines can't take this, Captain! We need to reduce power_!"

"Steady, Mister Malik, these ships are tougher you think. Miss Tsien, give me a voice count on the time at this velocity, and continue every ten seconds."

"Two minutes, thirteen seconds," the science officer said. "twenty seconds . . . thirty seconds . . ."

"Core temperatures are now approaching auto-shutdown, Sir!" called out Shrak.

"Computer, override auto shutdown sequence; authorization Dahlgren Alpha Two Two Three Seven Beta Delta Four."

"_Authorization code accepted. Auto shutdown sequence aborted_," the computer replied.

"forty seconds . . . fifty seconds . . . THREE MINUTES . . . ten seconds . . . twenty seconds . . . thirty seconds!"

"Core and coil temperatures are still increasing, Captain!" Chan reported. "Approaching coil melt warnings."

"Thank you, Mister Shrak. Miss Montoya, throttle down to Warp 7," Matt said as he activated the engineering comm link again. "Mister Malik, reduce fuel feed and bring us back to nominal power conditions. Mister Shrak, temperature status?"

"Dropping rapidly, Captain, coils are back in high caution and still dropping. Core temperature . . . core temperature is now within regulation limits."

"Very well. Secure the ship from Yellow Alert. Miss Montoya, maintain Warp 7 until we arrive in the Alpha Centauri system and then bring us about on course for a speed run to Earth—at Warp 9.5. Mister Shrak, I'll be in my ready room. You have the conn."

"Aye, aye, Sir," the XO answered. "I have the conn."

Matt woke with a start as his comm badge beeped, and he sat up from the couch in his ready room. Swinging his legs over the side, he went to stand—and swore as his right leg collapsed, sending what felt like a red-hot poker tearing through his thigh. He gasped, and tried to stand again, but the leg simply wouldn't take his weight. He tapped the comm badge.

"Dahlgren."

"_Captain we are approaching Earth and are about to drop out of warp_," Chan's voice came across loud and clear.

"Very well," Matt said, fighting to keep the pain out of his voice. "Take the ship to impulse power and set course for Mars. Star Fleet is supposed to sending a ship out that way to conduct maneuvers against us."

"_Yes, Captain Dahlgren. We received confirmation fifteen minutes ago of our planned rendezvous with the Defiant-class USS McHale. You aren't coming to the bridge, Sir_?"

"No, Mister Shrak." Matt bit his tongue, and then continued. "I'll join you after we meet up with _McHale_."

"_Very good, Sir_," the XO said and the transmission cut off.

Matt slammed his fist into the carpeted deck and tried to get up again, but still his leg refused to obey his commands. Finally, he tapped his own comm badge. "Dahlgren to Sickbay."

"_Sickbay, here_."

"Let me speak with Dr. Talbot."

After what felt like several painful minutes, a new voice came on line. "_Talbot_."

"Dr. Talbot, could you bring your kit to my ready room please."

"_Is something wrong, Captain_?"

"Just bring your kit, Doc. And use the turbolift off my ready room—don't go through the bridge."

A few very painful moments later, the doors to the Captain's ready room slid open and Quincy Talbot, M.D., stepped inside. He sighed as he saw Matt lying on the floor and shook his head as he crossed the deck.

"I warned you," he said put an arm around Matt and helped him up and to the couch. "I told you that you were pushing yourself too hard, but no, what do I know? I mean I'm the only one in the room who attended and graduated medical school, the only one who has treated patients for thirty-seven years, so obviously I know less about medicine and rehabilitation than a stubborn starship skipper who won't follow instructions."

Matt winced with pain as the older man pressed his fingers deep into his thigh, and the doctor nodded. He took his tricorder and it hummed as he ran it over the still healing wound. "You're running a fever and the muscles are strained—_again_, Matt. You've been doing the exercises?"

"Every night. I'm up to sixty pounds of dead weight."

"_Sixty_? I _told_ you _forty_, and every _other _night. And you haven't been taking your pain medicine either, have you?"

"They make me foggy, Quincy. I don't have time for that."

"Listen to me, Matt. You keep pushing this leg and not letting it heal at its natural pace, and you _will_ lose it—after ten months of rehab, you will _lose the leg_. I swear, you are doing more damage to yourself than that Jem'Hadar Stormtrooper did with that fire axe aboard _Kearsage_."

The doctor with the big pug nose and white hair took out a hypo and injected Matt directly atop the old wound, and Matt bit his lip, doubling over with the pain.

"There, that should relax the muscles and tendons and ligaments that you have wrenched again. But if you don't give that bone time to heal, it never will. Pain meds?"

"No," said Matt as the Doctor shrugged and hit him with another hypo injector, causing the ship's captain to jerk again.

"Damn it, Quincy, I said NO."

"It was the _wrong_ answer, Captain Dahlgren. You are this close," the surgeon held up his thumb and one finger with the barest hint of space between the two, "to me declaring you medically unfit for command! Besides, that hypospray is something new. Is it working?"

Matt began to breathe easier and he sat back as the pain faded away. But his mind wasn't blurred or fogged the way the other medications had made him. "Yeah. That works. You could have been giving me that all along?"

The doctor chuckled. "Hell no. It hasn't been approved for human trials yet by Star Fleet Medical."

Matt jerked. "_Republic _is officially a part of Galaxy Exploration Command, as you are aware, Captain. That means we qualify as an institution that can administer experimental pharmaceuticals as part of the trials. Well, congratulations, sir. You've just become part of the Phase II trials on Ladoculkaine VII. And no, you can't give it yourself. I will be by your quarters every morning from now on so you get a dose before you start your day and in your quarters every night for another before you go to bed."

Matt tried to stand again, and this time he managed to get up with the help of the Doctor and his cane. "And no weight exercises for at least a week, Captain. I'm not joking. You need to get some rest."

"After these maneuvers, Quincy."

"I'll hold you to that, Matt."

"Quincy?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it. And stay off that damned leg, Sir."

************************************************** ***********

_Republic _shivered and rocked as _McHale_ tore past her starboard side, her pulse phasers slamming into the shields of the larger vessel, following the pair of torpedoes which the escort had unleashed. Although the weapons power output was barely 1% of their full nominal load, the computers aboard the _Korolev_-class ship shook the crew and vessel as if full power warshots had impacted.

Matt winced as four golden phaser beams lanced out—three of which missed _McHale_ completely. The fourth caught the small ship squarely on her shields, but wasn't powerful enough to burn through.

"Mister Roshenko," Matt began.

"She's too agile, Captain, I can't get a targeting lock!"

"Mister Roshenko, _McHale_ is not a target beacon, and Captain Kessler is playing to win; something that you should anticipate any opponent will do."

"She's coming around again!" added Chan.

"Keep our nose to her, Miss Montoya; don't let her get behind or underneath us!" Matt called out even as the bridge lurched yet again, but the nimble little ship dodged two torpedoes and three more phaser bursts and climbed over them. More shield impacts rocked _Republic_, and Matt saw the dorsal shields begin to flash yellow, showing their weakening state. The dorsal engineering strip did manage to catch the escort with two bursts, but on a heretofore untouched shield.

"Much better, Mister Roshenko; now do that again. She's going for the anti-matter pods, Mister Shrak," Matt said sourly as stared at the flashing dorsal shields which protected the horizontal warp core and _Republic_'s fuel supply.

Chan nodded in agreement. "And her captain knows right where to hit us."

Matt said back for a moment and then he began to smile. "Yes, Captain Kessler knows exactly what our weaknesses are. And he knows just how old this ship is. On the next pass, Mister Shrak, drop our stern and dorsal shields on my command and cut power to all stern weapon systems—keep the dorsal strip live. Mister Malik," he continued into the comm unit, "upon that command you will power down the starboard nacelle and starboard impulse engine. Miss Montoya, using thrusters and port engines only, send us into a spin—make it look like we are out of control."

Chan Shrak smiled. "You are baiting her.'

"Yes. Miss Biddle, have the stern tractor beam crews on standby—she can't evade if she can't move."

"HERE SHE COMES," called out Isabella from the helm.

Matt buckled himself into his seat and raised one hand, and he flashed it down as _McHale_ fired. "NOW!"

Once more, the old lady shuddered and rocked from side to side, and Matt could see the dorsal shields flashing red—but the rear shields suddenly collapsed completely, along with all the weapons covering the rear of _Republic_. He braced himself as the ship began to spin wildly through three dimensions, and his display repeater showed the starboard engines off-line as well.

"Use manual targeting only, Mister Roshenko!" Matt barked. "I don't want _McHale_ to get the warning of a target lock. On my command, go to maximum fire rate on all stern batteries—phasers and torpedoes—and raise the stern shields."

"Aye, aye, sir."

_McHale_ held her distance as _Republic_ finally pulled out of the spin—her defenseless stern pointed enticingly towards the smaller warship. And then she turned her nose back towards the heavy cruiser and dove directly for the gap in the shields—and vulnerable bare hull plating covering the cruisers warp core nestled between her nacelles.

"Tractor crews standing by, Sir," Grace Biddle reported. "Tractors Four and Five ready to engage at 100% power."

"Steady, steady," Matt whispered, as _McHale _closed the range with every second. "NOW!"

The stern shields snapped back up and in place just before the escort began her final turn to line up for what should have the last shots of the engagement. Two powerful tractor beams grabbed the escort and momentarily pinned her in place, even as the stern weapons came back on line. _Republic_ shook as the smaller, but very powerful escort, attempted to break free of the tractors.

"Tractor stresses exceeding tolerances!" Grace Biddle called out, even as the rear photon torpedo tubes spat fire one and then a second torpedo, the glowing red projectiles streaking towards _McHale_. But the dorsal and stern phaser strips outpaced the torpedoes and this time both golden beams struck home—and this was no short burst by Pavel Roshenko; the phasers poured their energy into the shields of _McHale_, and then the first torpedo slammed home, quickly followed by the second. And then Matt's display showed that the escorts simulated shield strength collapsed, and he smiled.

"Cease fire," Matt said. "Well done, ladies and gentlemen, well done indeed."

Chan's antennae twisted as he returned that grin. "You do realize that Captain Kessler is going to be rather peeved at what we just did to him, Captain Dahlgren? Not to mention that we have four more days of exercises against him and _McHale_? He has won the E for Excellence pennant in tactical exercises three years running, after all."

Matt smiled. "Then we had best get better quick, Mister Shrak."

********************************************************

Captain Richard Kessler was remarkably gracious to the men and women of the _Republic_, congratulating them on achieving their victory. Commander Shrak was equally magnanimous, commenting that holding _McHale_ stationary for even such a short period of time had nearly burnt out both of the stern tractors—and that had _McHale_ turned _into_ the beams and began firing phasers and torpedoes into _Republic_ at max rate, rather than attempt to break the tractor lock, it would have been rather questionable as to _which _ship would have survived.

The courtesy shown by Captain Kessler did not stop him from going out and winning the next three exercises handily, however. But the fifth exercise, the one on the final day of the tactical maneuvers saw the umpires declare a tactical draw, as both ships were judged too severely damaged to continue.

Although some among the crew were crestfallen that their ship had been soundly defeated three times out of five, the judges were impressed that _Republic_, a ship thirty years older than the _McHale_ had performed so well. That report to Star Fleet, although technically confidential, was soon widely circulated among the lower decks of the cruiser, bolstering the crew's growing confidence and morale.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

"Matt, come on in," Josiah said as he stood from behind his desk in Star Fleet Headquarters. Two other men—Commodore Jurood and a Vulcan dressed in civilian clothing—also stood.

"Admiral, Commodore," Matt said as he shook their hands, and then he turned to face the civilian.

"Ambassador Sepak," the Vulcan said, bowing his head gracefully—he kept his hands firmly ensconced within the voluminous sleeves of his robes.

"Ambassador," Matt replied with a bow of his head.

Josiah sat, followed the other three men in turn, and he turned a wry smile upon his old friend. "I understand Richard Kessler was livid that he was bested even once by a ship as old as _Republic_, Captain?"

"Rick was . . . irate at falling for my trick, to be sure. But he was only courteous and gracious towards my ship and crew."

"There are some members of the Admiralty, Captain Dahlgren," the Andorian said with his antennae twitching, "who believe that the loss and the draw should be declared void in light of you using full-strength tractors in the first engagement—and then reversing the polarity and using them as repulsors in the fifth. My congratulations on that; you kept deflecting _McHale_'s torpedoes just far enough to generate a miss. Even though my understanding is that Admiral Grantham is not pleased at having to replace your ship's tractors because of the stresses you put on them at Mars."

"Technically, Commodore, tractor beams are not weapons—and the rules of the engagement only stated that weapons were to be powered down to minimum levels. Tractors are equipment and tools, not weapons."

"Those few are . . . concerned that you use of the tractor beam as a weapon is far too similar to how the Borg operate; and there are some who believe that such use may well spur research into the militarization of tractor-repulsor units. I, of course," the Andorian said, pointing at his own chest, "am not one of those detractors."

"Certainly, the Borg was the first major opponent we've encountered that use tractors in combat on a routine basis—and their tractors are far more powerful than any in Star Fleet. But we have adopted other species tactics before—take the _wolfpacks_ of _Defiant_- and _Saber_-class ships that we deployed in the Dominion War. That was nothing more than adopting the old Klingon idea of three smaller ships ganging up on a larger, more cumbersome vessel and worrying it to death."

"Oh, I quite agree, and so too do the majority of the officers in this building. But there are some who do not, Captain Dahlgren. And those few have no great love for either you or _Republic_; they would see you fail even if it costs Star Fleet a ship we can ill afford to lose."

Josiah shook his head. "Zak will talk your ear off with HQ gossip, Matt, if you give him the slightest opportunity—and he no doubt wants to discuss your tactical innovations at length. But that is not why I asked you to beam down here from Spacedock. When can _Republic_ ship out?"

Matt frowned. "Admiral Grantham assured me that his yard-workers will finish installing the new tractors by Thursday, and complete our full gripe list on Friday. It was my understanding that we would have at least two weeks of down-time, though—I've been pushing my people hard and wanted to give them some time with their families on planet."

"No, those plans have changed. Zak, see if you can light a fire under Grantham and get _Republic_ pushed to the top of the list—I want you underway in 24 hours, if possible. What do you know about the Lorsham?"

"Lorsham? I cannot recall ever hearing of them."

The Vulcan leaned forward slightly. "Not surprising, Captain. They are a race of being who inhabit a system they call Hak'ta-thor; their word for Home. It is G-class star located in The Cauldron."

Matt nodded. The Cauldron, he knew about. It was a dark nebula, rife with thick clouds of dust and debris—and one not too far distance from the core of the Federation worlds. The hazards it presented to navigation had not allowed for ships to pass through that of region of space until only a few decades ago, when improved deflector systems from the _Galaxy_ program began to be distributed among the ships of the Fleet. He looked down as he dredged up the memories of old journals and he finally nodded.

"The Lorsham and another race—the Kraal?—inhabit two systems within the Cauldron, correct?"

The Vulcan nodded his approval. "Yes. Both races have developed warp drives, but where the Lorsham were friendly and eager for outside contact, the Kraal are isolationists and very, very territorial. Both species declined joining the Federation, although the Lorsham response was far more restrained. But now it appears that the Kraal have invaded and overrun several Lorsham colonies—and the Lorsham have asked for Federation assistance. The Federation Council has asked that I mediate the dispute, Captain. And I require immediate transport."

Matt nodded his understanding. "Has there been a threat assessment on the Kraal, Admiral?"

"Unfortunately, Matt, there hasn't been. It just wasn't on Star Fleet's list of priorities—but they are more technologically advanced than the Lorsham. Not that it requires a great deal to be more advanced than the Lorsham—their best ships are roughly comparable to the old _Daedalus_-class of the 22nd century."

"The Kraal are a different story, however: _Hera_ made first contact back in 2361, she reported their vessels were armed with both disruptors and photon torpedoes, and equipped with deflector shield grids—technologies that were not available at the time for the _Daedalus_-class ships."

The Ambassador held up a hand. "It matters not. We shall be talking with the Lorsham and the Kraal, not fighting them. Your vessel is only present to deliver me and my and staff, Captain Dahlgren. The Council has no intention of getting involved in yet another war at this time."

"I'll have quarters prepared for you and your staff at once, Ambassador," Matt responded. Although, I don't think your intentions are going to matter a hill of beans if the Kraal don't _want_ to negotiate, he thought but didn't say.

Josiah stood, quickly followed by Matt, Jurood, and Sepak. "In that case, Matt, I'll let you get to it. Don't worry about Grantham—he'll get your ship ready on time. Good hunting, Captain."

*********************************************************

Matt sat with his eyes closed, as he listened to the last chorus of _Loch Lomond_. No instruments of wood or brass or strings; just voices blending perfectly together to form the ultimate expression of music. He lifted the crystal glass on the side table to his lips, taking a sip of the twenty-four year single-malt scotch whiskey—no synthehol, this!—before setting it back down on the table. As the voices crescendoed to the final strains, his comm badge beeped.

"Computer, pause playback."

The music immediately stopped.

"Dahlgren," Matt said as he tapped the device.

"_Lieutenant Commander Biddle, Sir. The communication channel you requested is now open_."

"Thank you, Miss Biddle. Transfer it down here to my quarters, please."

Matt slowly stood and—ignoring the cane—took a few fumbling steps over his desk, where he sat down and opened the monitor. He pressed a series of icons and the screen blanked, and then an image appeared of a teenaged woman, the reflection of a newly rising sun shining off the lake and the mountains he could clearly see through the windows behind her.

She smiled. "Dad!" she squealed. "Amy, Sarah, it's Dad!" she yelled.

"Hi, Cass," Matt said to his oldest daughter. "How are you doing, sweetheart?"

"Oh fine. Did you get the recording? Have you heard that we're going to Paris and we get to perform at Notre Dame!"

"I heard, baby. Congratulations—I know you've worked hard for this, and yes, I got the recordings—all of them. In fact, I was just listening to _Loch Lomond_—I think the tenor was a bit flat."

"Oh, Daddy," she shook her head, still grinning, but then the grin faded and her face fell. "You aren't going to be able to be there, are you?"

"I'm sorry, Cass, but I've got orders to leave the system in just a few hours from now. I don't know when I'll be back at Earth—but promise me you'll get Amy and Sarah to record it and send it to me via sub-space."

A faint voice came across the screen, and Matt's heart lurched when he heard his ex-wife. "Cassandra, who is calling at this hour?"

"Mom, it's Dad! Can you get Amy and Sarah?"

His daughter turned back to the comm and gave Matt a half-hearted smile. "You want to speak to Mom?"

Matt just shook his head. "No, just tell her I called and that I hope she's well." Besides, he thought, I don't need an argument this morning.

"I understand—about Notre Dame, Daddy. Is your ship what you thought she would be?"

"Better, Cass."

"Good. You need a woman in your life again," his eldest said with a grin. Suddenly, there was an ear-piercing shriek, and his other two daughters came running into the field of view.

"DADDY!" screamed the youngest, Sarah, a girl of only ten. Amy, his middle child and half-way grown at thirteen just smiled her breath-taking smile at him. She was the quiet one.

"Hey, girls. I just called to see you."

"You're going to space, aren't you?" asked Amy.

"I am sunshine."

She nodded. "You be more careful this time," she said very firmly.

"I will. I've sent your presents to your Mother, girls. She'll have them for your birthdays, if I am not back on Earth by then. But I want letters every week, you get me?"

"WE GET YOU, SIR!" all three of the girls shouted back smiling.

"Ok, I've got to go, babies."

"WAIT!" hollered Sarah as she ran into another room, Amy and Cassandra shaking their heads. Matt waited until she got back and deposited a most displeased cat—her golden fur stripped with darker patterns and dots—right in front of the monitor.

"See how BIG Jinx has got!"

"Oh, she has, hasn't she," Matt said with a chuckle. The cat cocked her ears when she heard Matt's familiar voice and turned to look at the screen, pawing the monitor. "MEOW. MEOW."

"She's saying she misses you, Daddy!" Sarah cried, lifting one of the cat's forepaws and waving. "We all miss you."

"Miss you too, girls. I'll send you message every week—and I expect yours on a regular schedule as well. And if you need to speak to me, you call that number at Star Fleet, and they will patch you through to me." And if not, there will be HELL to pay, he thought.

"Bye, babies, I've got to go now. I just wanted to see you again before I ship out."

One by one, the girls said bye, and then screen blanked, replaced by Star Fleet's insignia. And Matt slowly closed the monitor, before he limped back to his chair, and lifted the glass of scotch.

"Computer: restart recording."

"_By yon bonnie banks and by yon bonnie braes_ . . ."

"HOLD STILL!" Lara commanded, "Stop that fidgeting, Ensign, and look up!"

Chris grinned as he lifted his chin a little higher. "Aye, aye, ma'am," he answered as his friend from the Academy finally managed to hook the tight collar of Robert's dress uniform together.

"There," she said stepping back and giving Chris an appraising look. "Not bad, Chris, not bad," she mused as she circled around him. "I think you are now presentable."

Chris sighed. "Why did he pick _me_ for this?"

"Silly, he's been having all of his officers for dinner—I dined with the Captain last week. Well, me and seven other officers dined with the Captain."

"I know that, Lara. I mean, why this old ritual? No one else in Star Fleet does this."

"I don't know, Chris. Maybe he wants to meet his officers in a situation where he doesn't have to chew them up and spit them out! Maybe he wants to judge us in a formal dinner setting—although _my_ dinner invitation didn't include dress uniforms! Don't forget, you've got the Ambassador at the table as well—and Commander Shrak."

"Yo-you want to take my place?"

"Hush up. You'll do fine, Ensign Christopher Roberts. Just remembers: Ensigns are supposed to be seen and not heard—Mister Shrak told me that one. So don't speak unless someone asks you a direct question—and mind your manners, Mister!"

"Quiet I ca-can do."

"Go get 'em, Tiger!"

***************************************************************

The dinner wasn't nearly as bad as Chris thought it would be. Besides him, the Captains guests included the XO, Lt. Commander Biddle, Lieutenant Bowen from Engineering, Lt. Commander Tsien, the Ambassador, and the Vulcan's senior aide, Zakariah. So far, the conversation had been light and witty (although Chris had followed Lara's instructions and kept silent) and the meal was excellent. Not replicated, either, but _hand-cooked_ by Captain Dahlgren's chef—another slot Chris thought he would never have seen aboard a starship.

They had finally arrived at the desert course, and the yeoman's had whisked away the earlier plates and glasses, replacing them with smaller china platters with silver dome lids. The crewmen assigned to the dinner party refilled carafes of sweet iced tea, and water, and juice, and then the chef came out of the adjourning pantry and extended a sealed bottle to Captain Dahlgren. The Captain took out a pair of glasses—real _spectacles_!—and put them on to read the label, and then he nodded at the chef, who removed the cork and poured a small amount of _genuine_ brandy into the bottom of a snifter. The captain inhaled the scent of the liquor; he swirled it in the glass, and then he took a small sip.

"Most excellent, Francis," he said to the chef who bowed slightly. "I do hope my officers will share this cognac with me? Ambassador, I am aware that Vulcans do not drink . . ."

"We do not _usually_ drink, Captain Dahlgren, but I must admit I have developed a taste for earth cognacs. I shall try a snifter."

Glass by glass, Francis circled the table and poured just enough cognac to cover the bottom of the curved crystal goblets. Then, the chef stepped back and the yeoman's removed the silver lids revealing . . . a grayish stone mottled in green?

"You honor me, Captain Dahlgren," the Ambassador said. "_Ts'kaba_ fruit is a rare enough delicacy upon its native Vulcan. I shan't inquire too closely as to how you acquired ripened _ts'kaba_ in such a short time."

"_Republic_ and her officers wished to show their appreciation for the Ambassador's service to the Federation, Ambassador."

The Vulcan bowed his head slightly, and then his stern gaze settled on Chris.

"You first experience with _ts'kaba_, Ensign?"

"Yes, Sir."

"I also believe that is the first spoken words I have heard from you all evening. Take these tongs," the Vulcan instructed, holding up a silver utensil," in your left hand and fix them firmly to the fruit. Then, using this utensil," he held up a small silver hammer, "gently crack the shell along what you would refer to as the 65th-degree of north latitude, were the fruit a planet. Taking the fork, pry the cracked rind up and away, placing it to one side. And then," the Vulcan finished as he lifted a spoon and scooped up a glistening chunk of a reddish-orange pulp, "you eat."

Sepak slowly chewed the fruit and then he swallowed. "It is a most excellent _ts'kaba_, Captain."

Chris followed the ambassador's directions as conversion resumed and the other guests were cracking open their own fruits, but his first tap did not crack the rind.

"A bit firmer, Ensign," the Vulcan advised, and then he frowned. "I would suggest, however, that you reposition the tongs before . . ."

CRACK! As Chris tightened his grip on the utensil and began to strike it again, the fruit shot out of the grips and soared up on a ballistic arc.

". . . you lose . . ."

The young man's jaw dropped, his mouth opened, and the blood drained from his face as the errant fruit struck a carafe of iced juice, knocking it over where it spilled its contents directly into the lap of the ship's Captain.

". . . the fruit."

Matt gasped as the sweet, sticky juice, chilled with cubes of ice, poured into his lap, and he jerked slightly, and then he looked down at the mess.

There was absolute silence in the dining room. Yeoman Sinclair moved towards the Captain, but Matt held up one hand, and she stopped in her tracks. He raised his head and lifted the drenched napkin from his lap, turning it around and around until he found a dry spot, and he patted his lips.

"Ambassador," he said in a quiet and even voice. "Mister Shrak. I believe that I will retire for the night. Please, gentlemen, ladies, feel free to finish your meal."

Chan Shrak had both arms set on the table, his face buried in his open palms, but his antennae weren't merely twitching—they _quivered_! A white faced Grace Biddle turned to stare directly at Chris in horror, and the other officers were only barely containing their shocked laughter. The ensign slowly closed his open mouth, as he tried to apologize but not a single sound emerged.

Matt reached down, and picked up his cane, and then he stood, followed by everyone else at the table. "Good evening, to all of you," the Captain said as he limped to the doors and exited, dripping fruit juice behind him.

The Ambassador nodded and folded his hands before him. "Please extend my complements to the Captain's chef, Mister Shrak. And I think perhaps it is best to end the meal here. Come along Zakariah." The aide trailed out behind the Vulcan, and slowly each of the other guests began to shuffle towards the door.

Chris took two steps, only to be stopped by the stern voice of the XO. "Oh no, Mister Roberts; not you. Everyone else, you are dismissed."

Oh boy, Chris, he thought to himself, have you managed to screw up _big_ this time.

*****************************************************

"Captains Log, Stardate 53750.0, USS _Republic_. We have been traveling at Warp 8 for the past 116 hours since leaving the Solar System en route to the Cauldron. _Republic_ appears to have gotten her second wind and all systems are operating well within the limits of regulation. We will drop out of warp just outside the nebula and reconfigure the main deflector and bussard collectors handle the increased particle density. According to Stellar Cartography, it should take seventeen hours to penetrate the outer cloud at Warp 4—higher speeds being contraindicated by the prevailing conditions within the cloud itself."

"This is my first encounter with the Cauldron, and upon reviewing the data Lieutenant Commander Tsien has provided for me, I must say that I am impressed. Most nebulas, even those formed from the explosive demise of a star, are seldom home to sentient lifeforms. But within the interior of the Cauldron, space-normal conditions prevail after piercing the wall of dust and debris. Seventeen star systems lie within a 'hollow' at the center of the nebula. Those seventeen systems contain at least fourteen known Class M worlds, several of which have been colonized by the Lorsham and the Kraal. It is most unusual and quite possibly unique, and Lt. Commander Tsien has expressed her eagerness to examine the nebula at close range, an eagerness that I must admit that I share. The dust clouds and debris fields that litter the nebula have provided both of these races with access to nearly unimaginable amounts of resources. Information on the Kraal exploitation of the nebula is not fully known, but the Lorsham have many ships dedicated to mining the resources, leaving their colony worlds ecologically pristine. Technologically, the Lorsham are roughly comparable to the Federation as it was in the late 22nd and early 23rd Centuries."

"I am concerned by the reports that indicate powers originating outside of Federation space have made contact these two cultures within the Cauldron, powers that include the Klingons, the Orions, and the Ferengi. Whether or not any of these powers are behind the sudden aggressive actions by the Kraal remains to be seen, but the recent appearance of disruptors, shields, and photon torpedoes on Kraal ships in the past two decades indicates either that culture is rapidly advancing or receiving covert assistance and technological innovation."

"Ambassador Sepak is convinced that diplomacy can resolve the issues; I remain skeptical that a race as xenophobic as the Kraal will respond to any such overtures from a being outside of their own closed society. Accordingly, I have stepped up drills and battle simulations aboard _Republic_. I am confident that we can end any Kraal aggression quickly if necessary—provided that our information is correct. Unfortunately, there is a noticeable paucity of data on the Kraal, and many of the briefing notes which the Ambassador provided are prefaced with 'to the best of our knowledge'; a knowledge that is sorely lacking in many key areas."

"The crew are as prepared as I can make them for this challenge, and they appear to be rising to the occasion. Morale has soared as they have come to realize that if our ship can avert a war, the weight of her shame will be lessened. In addition, our system faults have been eliminated: crewman Zapata managed to locate the error in our primary and secondary computer cores and restored the systems to full nominal operation. Perhaps we have left our gremlins behind us."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

The ship lurched to one side and shook violently.

"Ionization levels are increasing, Sir," Grace sang out from the Ops station. "There is a substantial amount of sub-space turbulence."

"Steady as she goes, Miss Montoya," Matt said calmly, as he gazed down at the readings himself. "Miss Tsien, tie the lateral sensors into navigation to increase short-range resolution—perhaps we can avoid these pockets of sub-space instability."

"On it, Captain," the Science Officer replied from her station behind him.

Ahead, on the main viewer, Matt could see the flashes of light created by tidal motion of the gasses and dust and debris, flashes that briefly illuminated the blue and black cloud through which _Republic_ steadily cruised.

Penetrating the cloud had proved (so far, at least) just as difficult as _Hera_'s logs had indicated. Not only did the particle density exceed that of the majority of such stellar phenomena, the Cauldron had tides and flows of gravity influenced by the strange effects of the dark matter hidden within. It wasn't quite as intense as the Badlands, but close, Matt thought.

"Approaching the inner boundary," Amanda said softly. "We should be clear in just a few more minutes."

A massive bolt of lightning, born from the ionized gasses and debris, flashed across the viewer—but _Republic_'s shields held, even though the ship shook violently.

"No damage, Captain Dahlgren," Chan intoned as his hands flew across the console. "Shields holding at 82%. Ionization levels have dropped by half."

Matt nodded. "Mister Roshenko, drop another Class VI probe; this should be the final link in our chain to the outside."

"Aye, aye, sir; launching Class VI Probe on station-keeping."

This was the ninth communications relay probe that Matt had deployed—but he had no intention of being unable to communicate with Star Fleet. And the sub-space interference the nebula had already shown distorted sub-space radio over long distances—using the probes as communication beacons and relay points would allow any transmission to quickly reach Star Fleet with a minimum of signal loss.

Plus, the sensor arrays carried by the probes would record the phenomena encountered within the nebula for later analysis, a task that would keep Amanda's science teams occupied.

Suddenly, the main viewer cleared, the clouds of gas and dust and debris falling away to reveal clear space ahead, with nearly twenty stars shining bright against the backdrop of the Cauldron's distant walls.

"We have cleared the Nebula wall, sir," said Isabella from the helm.

"Very good, all stop."

"All stop, aye, sir."

"Deflector Control, reconfigure the main dish for space-normal operations; Mister Malik, reset the Bussard Collectors and dump the accumulated gas."

Two voices answered his command in near unison, "_Aye, aye, sir_."

"Mister Shrak, secure the ship from Yellow Alert and post normal watches."

"Canceling Yellow Alert."

The turbo-lift doors opened and Ambassador Sepak stepped onto the bridge, trailed by several members of his staff. Matt swiveled his chair.

"Mister Ambassador, welcome to the Cauldron," he said with a smile. And then the captain noticed that Amanda Tsien was frowning. "Miss Tsien, is there a problem?"

"Sir . . . this makes no sense."

Matt frowned. "What, exactly, Miss Tsien, makes no sense?"

"Nebulas with star systems within them do form pockets of clear space generated by the solar wind of the individual stellar masses. But those pockets are always _local_ and surround each star. Only a supernova expansion shell differs; but the Cauldron is not a nova remnant. And yet, there is a space 33-light years in length, 24-light years in width, and 15-light years in height with standard interstellar conditions. These conditions should not be present."

The Vulcan arched one eyebrow. "That was also noted by the crew of the _Hera_ fifteen years ago, Lieutenant Commander. It should have been expected."

"Yes, Ambassador. But long-range sensors also show that none of the dimensions of the interior boundaries have altered in the slightest since that time. They remain _exactly_ as they were when _Hera_ penetrated the dust cloud. None of the drifts have expanded or diminished, and that . . . that shouldn't be true."

"Fascinating," the Vulcan said. "Are your sensors in proper working order, Lieutenant Commander Tsien?"

"They are."

Now Matt's frown deepened and he compared _Republic_'s sensor readings with those from the _Nebula_-class cruiser fifteen years ago. They matched precisely. And that was impossible, wasn't it?

"It is a mystery of the Cauldron," Sepak answered. "Perhaps, once we have normalized relations with the Lorsham and averted this conflict, Star Fleet might be enticed to station a scientific research vessel here for further study."

"I will be recommending exactly that, Mister Ambassador," Matt said as he shook his head. "Miss Biddle, open a communications channel to the Lorsham Central Authority in the Hak'ta-thor system."

"Channel open."

"This is Captain Matthew Dahlgren of the Federation Starship _Republic_. We will arrive at Hak'ta-thor Prime in . . ."

"Eighty-three minutes at Warp 6, Sir," Isabella chimed in from her station.

". . . eighty-three minutes with Ambassador Sepak and his retinue in response to your request for Federation assistance."

The main viewer changed from displaying the nebula to show an elegantly dressed humanoid seated behind a desk. His face and hands were covered in a short fur of red and white, and his jaw was extended forward in a muzzle filled with sharp teeth.

"I am Premier Vorshun, the leader of the Lorsham people, and I bid you welcome to Shai'kar Morva—the Cradle of Life among the Clouds of Space. We shall be expecting your arrival, Captain Dahlgren. We have much which to discuss."

The screen blanked, and Matt blinked. "Not much for conversation, are they?"

"They are a logical people, Captain Dahlgren," the Ambassador answered. "I suspect that our questions will be answered with efficacy upon our arrival."

"Which will only raise additional questions, I think Mister Ambassador."

Once again, the Vulcan raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. It would be a most boring universe if we knew the answer to every question there is."

Matt smiled and nodded. "Touché, Sir. Miss Montoya, make your course to the Hak'ta-thor system, Warp Factor Six."

**********************************************

Chan Shrak shook his head as he took in the ships in orbit above Hak'ta-thor Prime through the window of the captain's ready room. The Lorsham ships recalled to protect their home system were well built, and lovingly maintained—that much was obvious just from looking at them from the screen. But there were only three dozen of the small vessels—and of those only four could claim to be even half of _Republic_'s length, a mere fraction of her tonnage. Sensors, of course, penetrated farther than the naked eyes; and here too the primitive nature of the Lorsham space effort was readily apparent. The low-powered warp drives were unlikely to reach any speed much above Warp 4 (or, to be plain spoken, little more than what one of _Republic_'s _shuttlecraft_ could reach), and their weapons were a combination of old-style phase cannon and spatial torpedoes. They did possess surprisingly effective shields, however; a fact which had caused Ambassador Sepak to frown. After all, the Lorsham had not developed shields only fifteen years ago, and yet _now_ they had them.

"Regulations forbid it, you know. And with that leg, you certainly can't run if things go wrong."

Matt looked up in exasperation at this first officer. "Chan, we aren't beaming down into the middle of a Jem'Hadar base. The Ambassador asked me to accompany him to the surface and I am going. That is the end of this discussion."

"Very well, Captain Dahlgren, Sir," the Andorian said with a twinkle in his eyes and his antennae twitched. "You will need an aide—and a bodyguard, and on that part, Captain, I must insist."

Matt glared at his first officer, but Chan just stood there as cool as ice and returned the stare, his Captain's glare having absolutely no effect. Finally, the Captain chuckled. "Very well. _One_ aide, Chan, and a _discrete_ Marine. Oh, and have Counselor Trincullo report to Transporter Room Two as well."

"Trincullo?"

"She's trained at reading people, Chan, hearing what they aren't saying aloud. I want to know if the Lorsham are holding something back from us. Like why their colonies fell almost two months ago and yet we haven't encountered a single Kraal ship since our arrival. Not even on scanners. Does that strike you as strange that wouldn't even have a scout out there observing this system?"

"I was afraid it was my paranoia acting up again, Sir. But since you asked, I get the strangest feeling that we may not quite as welcome as the Lorsham claim. Certainly, they requested that _Republic_ take a parking orbit on the opposite side of the planet from that shipyard complex they have in orbit. Almost like there is something there they don't want us to get a good look at." Chan smiled. "Too bad they don't know you are a devious, devious man, Captain Dahlgren."

"Then I take it the passive scans from the stealth probe we dropped off after exiting warp picked up something?"

"You might say that," the XO answered as he laid a data-chip on the captain's desk. Matt slid it into a slot and then the data began streaming across—followed by a picture, and he whistled low.

"My, my, my. What is a _Bat'leth_-class battle cruiser doing here?"

"Such a suspicious mind, Captain Dahlgren, tsk, tsk, tsk; what _would_ the Vulcan say? After all, I'm sure the Klingons have a perfectly legitimate reason to send one of their newest and most modern warships this deep into Federation space and be on scene just as we are having reports of a war, and a plea for Federation assistance. Who knows? They might just be on an errand of mercy."

Matt nodded as he slowly stood. "Ambassador Sepak doesn't want us to carry weapons; _but_," the Captain said, raising his hand and his voice to cut off his XOs next words, "he doesn't get the final call on that."

"Have Beck issue Trincullo, my aide, and myself a cricket—we'll let the Marine carry the only obvious weapon, which will displease the Ambassador greatly, I am certain."

"Of course sir."

"And speaking of which, who exactly are you planning to assign as my aide, Mister Shrak?"

Chan smiled and hit his comm badge. "Get in here."

The doors to the bridge access corridor slid open and Ensign Roberts walked in and snapped to attention. "Reporting as ordered, Sir!"

Matt shook his head, and finally nodded, with the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Mister Roberts, Mister Shrak is about to brief you. Try not to spill any fruit juice on me while he does, or while the two of us are meeting with the leadership of the Lorsham on planet."

"I-I'm beaming down with you, Sir?"

"Something about that you don't like, Ensign?"

"No, Sir! NO, SIR! I just wasn't expecting . . ."

"Mister Roberts, Mister Shrak selected you—so you must have been doing _something_ right. Chan, I'll meet you in Transporter Two; right now I need to see Dr. Talbot before I beam down with the Ambassador and his staff—and your Mister Roberts, here."

"I will make certain he knows his assignment, Captain Dahlgren," Chan said, as Matt limped out of the ready room.

Six shimmering columns of light appeared in the square as Matt, the Ambassador, and the remainder of the away team materialized. Several of the Lorsham were waiting on their arrival, and the aliens bowed in unison. "I am Carelis, honored guests," one said, "assistant to Premier Vorshun. He is waiting within to greet you."

As the Ambassador exchanged greetings, Matt took a moment to look around the city. The government complex was set upon the peak of a high hill, providing him with a spectacular view of the entire urban area. The Lorsham did not appear to favor soaring towers, for most of the structures were set low to the ground. Patches of vegetation and trees—parks, perhaps—were interspaced among the polished marble buildings, which were adorned with columns and bas-reliefs.

The overall effect was grandiose and suggested to the Captain a confidence and pride in the Lorsham people. But, there were only a handful of ground vehicles moving—and where were all the residents? Some few were walking amongst the buildings, but no more than would normally be found on the grounds of the Academy between classes. It was certainly nothing like San Francisco or London or Moscow. He turned his attention back to the assistant to the Premier and the Ambassador.

"This way, gentlebeings," Carelis said, bowing again and waving them forward.

Over tiled mosaic floors and through halls lined with bold brightly-colored frescos they walked until they reached a vast rotunda beneath an impressive dome. Across the rotunda, the red-furred Lorsham who had greeted their hail sat on a gilded throne.

Vorshun stood as they approached him. "Welcome to the world of my people. Ambassador," he said to the Vulcan, who bowed his head politely, "Captain."

"Premier Vorshun," the Vulcan spoke, "you have requested Federation assistance. I am prepared to offer such. How did this conflict with the Kraal begin?"

"The Kraal have always been disagreeable, and there have been skirmishes between us in the past. They seem to regard _Shai'kar_ _Morva_ as their sole territory, and have moved against us to consolidate their power; Mister Ambassador, I think they mean to conquer us."

"But why now, Premier? What has provoked them into initiating hostilities against your people?"

"Provoked? Do you suggest that it is the Lorsham to blame for this? We have only sought to aid the Kraal, sharing with them our technology and our culture, and for that they repay us by . . ." Vorshun's voice trailed off. "It does not matter. They have taken two of our worlds, they have destroyed a number of our ships. But now the mighty Federation is here to assist us in defending our homes."

"Premier Vorshun, I am here to mediate an end to this conflict—not to get the United Federation of Planets embroiled in another war."

The Lorsham's eyes narrowed and his muzzle quivered slightly. "You will stand by and watch as the Kraal destroy all which my People have created? You will not aid us?"

"We will aid you, Premier. But perhaps diplomacy can resolve this conflict without the need for further violence."

"Take your ship to Gelast II or Shirdon IV, Mister Ambassador. Look at the bombed out shells of my People, there. And ask yourself how you can negotiate with those who murder women and children."

"Know this; if the Federation will not aid us, there are other powers who will. Bring in the emissary," he barked at his assistants.

Matt could feel the rise in tension of the Lorsham around him; they clearly did not like what the Ambassador had to say. And it did not escape the starship captain that the Premier had not, in any way, actually answered the Ambassador's question. Why had this war begun in the first place?

Heavy booted steps echoed from the tiles that lined the floor, and Matt turned to watch the Klingon officer stride into the rotunda. He nodded to himself as he noticed that the uniform the Klingon war bore none of the Imperial standards—instead he must either serve one of the Great Houses of the Empire, or be a renegade.

"Ambassador, may I introduce to you Captain Krull, of the Klingon Empire. His ship was visiting _Shai'kar_ _Morva_ when this crisis escalated. And he has been kind enough to offer us his protection—and the friendship of Chancellor Martok and the Imperial High Council."

"Captain Krull, Ambassador Sepak of the United Federation of Planets."

"Good day, Ambassador. I see that the Vulcans continue to keep Star Fleet on a short leash," he barked, baring his teeth in a ferocious smile, which he transferred to Matt. "You must be the commander of that relic in orbit. Has Star Fleet taken to fielding museum pieces instead of proper ships of the line?"

"Calmly, Krull," whispered Vorshun softly—almost too softly for Matt to hear. But Ambassador Sepak did raise an eyebrow.

The Klingon turned back to the throne, and bowed low on one knee. "Forgive me, Premier. I did not mean to insult your guests."

And the tone in which he spoke was one of reverence! Matt realized with shock. Not mocking, not sarcastic, but worshipful _reverence_—from a _Klingon_. What the . . .

A bell sounded, and the Premier frowned. "There are matters of state that require my attention," he said as the gongs slowly continued to chime. "We will speak again, later today, Mister Ambassador. Please return to your vessel."

The Ambassador slowly gave a half-bow, and Matt tapped his comm badge. "_Republic_. Six to beam up."

As the transporter beam formed around him, Matt could see the Klingon and the Lorsham prostrating themselves, chanting, "Blessed be Ordan, who . . ." but he rematerialized onboard the starship before he could hear the rest.

"Fascinating, Captain Dahlgren," said the Ambassador as he stepped off the transporter pad. "Not exactly what I was expecting."

Matt nodded, still frowning, as he walked over to the intercom on the transporter console. "Bridge, this is Dahlgren. Run a database search for Ordan—spelling unknown; start with _Hera_'s records and see if there is any mention from her first contact." He turned back to the Ambassador. "Nor I, Sir; but I believe we are living in interesting times, as the ancient Chinese said."

***********************************************************

Matt limped into the conference aft of the bridge, and his senior officers, the Ambassador, and the three members of his away team stood. "As you were," he said as he took his seat.

"The Ambassador has now briefed you on what occurred on the planet's surface. Ladies and gentlemen, something is not right here—I've got an itch between my shoulder blades like a cloaked Romulan is dead astern and ready to fire. So here's what we are going to do: Mister Shrak, we are going to assume a modified state of Yellow Alert—and we are going to _remain_ there. All compartments are to be manned; all weapons are to have their local crews on station and ready to go hot on a moment's notice. We will not raise shields; that could be viewed as provocative. Lieutenant Beck, I want full internal security, including roving patrols. Your Marines are authorized Type II Phasers, and your reaction teams Type III Phaser Rifles. Officers and senior NCOs will be issued a Type I Phaser. Doctor Talbot, Medical is to remain ready to receive casualties, and Mister Malik I want Damage Control manned and ready around the clock."

"I could be wrong, but this Vorshun," Matt shook his head, "I don't like the vibe I am feeling from him. Counselor Trincullo, have you formed any opinions about the Lorsham in general, and Vorshun in particular?"

"He was hiding something, Sir," the counselor quietly replied. "That much was obvious—to you as well as the Ambassador and myself. I was carefully watching him, Captain, just like you asked, and well, body language is not the same across different races," and here she looked down before she met his gaze firmly. "That said, his unconscious muscular responses, well . . . Captain, they f_rightened_ me. He is a fanatic, in my opinion."

Sepak nodded gravely. "I concur, Captain Dahlgren. It is a shame that we were unable to record the meeting, perhaps a more detailed analysis of the playback might reveal something we have each missed."

Matt frowned and almost burst out laughing as Ensign Roberts, standing with his back against one wall slowly raised his hand like an Academy cadet. Chan groaned, and Lt. Commander Biddle shook her head. Matt forced his lips to maintain a stern and somber look.

"Mister Roberts, put your hand down before you look even more ridiculous. Do you wish to add something?"

"Y-yes, Sir, Captain Dahlgren, Sir," the young man said. "I wasn't really certain what Commander Shrak meant when he said I was your aide, Sir, other than to do exactly what you told me to do. But I was . . . I thought I might have to write a report to you on the away mission, and I . . . I-I set my tricorder to automatically record from inside the holster, Sir. I have the entire thing stored from beam-down to beam-up."

"Good thinking, Mister Roberts. Well done, Ensign," Matt said with a smile, and he nodded to Chan who still shaking his head—with his antennae jumping around hysterically got up and collected the tricorder.

"Miss Tsien, has a data-search of our memory banks indicated any results for the word Ordan?"

"Actually, Sir, there was a reference. _Hera_ included a sample of Lorsham literature in her first contact report, including a text known as _The Book of Ordan_. I've assigned Social Sciences to dissect the text in its entirety and prepare a report for you and the Ambassador, but it is certainly a religious text, similar to the Torah, the Bible, the Koran, and others from Earth . . . and, of course, _The Book of Ice_ from Andoria. Not to mention all of other cultures and races. It speaks about an angel named Ordan who brought knowledge and society to prehistorical Hak'ta-thor. According to the text, it was Ordan who united the Lorsham and brought about their present day culture. Interestingly, there are several passages within the text that make it appear as if his angel came to the planet from space—and that was no nebula. This being then, at some point further in time, left to return to her home. But she left behind the Shai'kar Morva—the Cradle of Life among the Clouds of Space—to shield and protect the Lorsham until her return. And she does promise to return, to see with her own eyes what the Lorsham have achieved in her absence, and then to spread them throughout the galaxy until "_the Word of Ordan is heard by every ear, and every mouth speaks the Glory of her Name_". And that is a literal translation of the last line of the text."

"Oh boy," muttered the Trill engineer. "Zealots."

"Captain," chimed in Doctor Talbot. "With your permission, I'd like to have Medical go over those tricorder scans in detail—this business with the Klingon has me very worried. It almost sounds as if they have brainwashed him, and Klingons are not the easiest of races to mentally influence."

"Agreed," said Matt. "Chan, search our files again and find me everything that Star Fleet intelligence has gathered on Krull. If we have to fight, I want to know my enemy."

The Andorian nodded his agreement.

The Vulcan cocked one eyebrow. "I realize that your ship is larger, Captain Dahlgren, but can _Republic_ successfully engage a _Bat'leth_-class battlecruiser?"

"It would be a close run thing, Mister Ambassador. She's brand-spanking new, even if she is smaller than their _Vor'cha_-class. Our shields are better, but she can cloak and we carry about the same amount of raw firepower. Let's hope we don't have to find out which captain is better."

"In fact, I think I am going to send a message to Star Fleet Command, and request they send a second ship out this way. Just in case things take a turn for the worse."

"I am not certain we will have time for you to exit the Cauldron and send that message, Captain Dahlgren," the Ambassador answered.

Chan chuckled. "Our captain is well-prepared, Mister Ambassador. We dropped a chain of comm relay beacons on our passage through the Cloud. Rest assured, we can send a message to the Fleet from our current parking orbit."

Once again, the eyebrow was raised. "You would have made an excellent diplomat, Captain Dahlgren. We appreciate the need for a . . . what is that human expression, ah yes . . . an ace in the hole."

"_Bridge to Captain Dahlgren. Bridge to Captain Dahlgren._"

Matt hit his comm badge. "Dahlgren."

"_Premier Vorshun has just hailed us, Sir. He is ready to resume the talks and has requested that the Ambassador beam down._"

"Understood."

Matt took a long look at his officers and then nodded. "I want you and your people ready, for any contingency. I'll be accompanying the Ambassador . . ."

"Pardon the interruption, Captain Dahlgren. But that shan't be necessary."

Matt turned his gaze on the Vulcan and he inclined his head. "Go on."

"I think that instead of beaming down with me, we should accept Premier Vorshun's invitation to see his abandoned colonies with our own eyes. I doubt that he intended for us to do so, but he did grant us permission, almost in fact issued an order. Quite clearly."

"I can assign you security, Mister Ambassador."

"That would only provoke, Vorshun I fear. My aides are trained in defensive maneuvers—we will be fine."

Chan snorted. "And having this ship head for the planets that were attacked won't provoke him?"

"An ancestor of mine once remarked that it is easier to beg forgiveness than to ask permission, Commander Shrak."

Matt nodded. "And if we should happen to make contact with a Kraal vessel on the voyage, perhaps we might glean their side of the events."

"Indeed. I might have to recruit you for the Diplomatic Corps, Captain Dahlgren."

"Heaven forbid; I'll retire first, Mister Ambassador. Very well then, ladies and gentlemen, assume your stations and prepare to get under way."

Matt waited as his officers filed out of the briefing room. "You are taking a risk, Mister Ambassador. We won't be back for at least two days. Quite possibly longer."

"That risk comes with the title, Captain Dahlgren, much like that of the Captain and crew of a Star Fleet starship. We who talk also serve, after all."

Matt stood and raised his right hand in the Vulcan salute. "Live long and prosper, Ambassador Sepak."

"Good hunting, Captain Dahlgren," the Vulcan answered as he extended his hand across the conference table. A hand that Matt took and shook firmly.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

"Captains Log, Stardate 53750.3, USS _Republic_. Scans of both Gelast II and Shirdon IV have confirmed that both planets have been depopulated; all population centers were subjected to a sustained, methodical, and thorough photon bombardment from orbit. Both colonies were rather small, with an estimated total population of less than fifty thousand. Exhaustive sensor sweeps have indicated no Lorsham survivors on either colony, and we have detected debris from several Lorsham ships in both systems as well."

"And yet, we have so far failed to detect even a single Kraal ship in the space claimed by the Lorsham. Our communication attempts with the Kraal have gone unanswered as well."

"At first glance, the nature of these atrocities committed against the Lorsham colonies appears to support the claim that the Lorsham are being attacked. But why? For what reason did the Kraal see fit to obliterate the two colonies, and then simply stop their advance? Why aren't we detecting Kraal forces massing for an attack into the Hak'ta-thor system? Why haven't the Kraal claimed these worlds if they are launching a war of expansion?"

"There are too many unanswered questions here.

"Admiral Parker agrees that there is more here than meets the eye—and he was . . . concerned at the presence of a Klingon battlecruiser this close to the core of the Federation. His latest transmission confirms my suspicions that Krull is not a part of the Klingon Defense Force; Chancellor Martok, according to the Admiral, claimed that Krull is in the service of one of the Great Houses, that of Lord Mak'vegh—a known rival for the Chancellor's seat in the High Council. He has promised the Admiral that answers will be forthcoming, but I fear that such answers will take time."

"And time may well be a resource that is rapidly running thin."

"In the meantime, Star Fleet Command has issued orders to the _Andromeda_-class USS _Piper_ and the _Nebula_-class USS _Phoenix_ to proceed to the Cauldron at once. Unfortunately, it will take several days, possibly a week, for either of these ships to reach the Cauldron."

"Accordingly, I have decided to take _Republic_ into Kraal territory in an attempt to make contact and further investigate the reasons behind their actions. And hopefully, shed some light on the motivations behind the Lorsham as well."

************************************************

"Captain, long-range sensors have detected a Kraal vessel patrolling their border," said Amanda from her Science station.

"Hail them, Mister Shrak."

"No response, Sir."

"Very well. Miss Biddle, what is our current time from the border?"

"Two minutes at Warp 8, Sir."

"Miss Montoya, plot an intercept course to the Kraal vessel, Warp 8."

"Aye, aye, Sir. Coming to heading 092, Mk 002. Accelerating to Warp 8."

"Mister Shrak, set Yellow Alert throughout the ship, and raise shields."

"Yellow Alert set in all compartments, Captain Dahlgren. Shields are now active."

"Captain?"

Matt swiveled to face his Science Officer. "Yes, Miss Tsien?"

"I am detecting a number of small buoys paralleling the borders claimed by the Kraal. They appear to be generating a sensor net of some kind."

"Are the buoys armed?"

"No sir."

"Well, let's ring their door bell then."

"The Kraal vessel is turning to intercept us, Sir," Pavel Roshenko called out from tactical. "Shall I arm phasers?"

Matt considered and then he shook his head. "Not yet, Mister Roshenko; but keep your crews on standby." The Captain paused for a second. "Load torpedoes into the ready magazines, but do not arm."

"Initiating torpedo load sequence, Sir," the tactical officer paused, "ready magazines are now loaded, torpedoes are not armed."

"We are now crossing the Kraal border, Captain," Grace sang out. "Sensor beams from the buoys are probing us—and they are transmitting an encoded sub-space signal."

"Steady as she goes, Miss Montoya. Time to intercept?"

"Thirty seconds, sir," replied the operations officer.

"Drop to sub-light, Miss Montoya. Mister Shrak, hail them again."

_Republic_ quivered as the mighty starship bled speed and decelerated to impulse power.

"Still no response from the Kraal vessel, Captain Dahlgren," Chan answered.

"She's dropped out of warp, Sir," offered Amanda Tsien. "She's raising shields and arming weapons."

"What is your tactical analysis of that ship, Mister Roshenko?"

"She's roughly comparable with a first-flight _Valley Forge_-class, circa 2223, Captain. Armament consists of low-powered disruptors and photon torpedoes, with first generation shields. Her impulse engines are sub-standard for her mass, and I doubt she can achieve 0.1_c_ even at full power. She poses little threat to us, Sir."

"Hold our current position, Miss Montoya, let her come to us. How does she compare to the Lorsham ships, Pavel?" Matt asked.

"Aye, aye, sir, thrusters set to station-keeping, maintaining our position and orientation."

"She's bigger, faster, and carries twice the armament, with more efficient and powerful weapons. Her shields are weaker—the Lorsham ships are roughly equal in that area to a _Constitution_-refit or early _Miranda_-class. One on one, the Kraal vessel would probably win—and their Fleet outnumbers the Lorsham, according to our data."

Amanda cleared her throat. "Speaking of which, I have detected three additional vessels of this class approaching at Warp 5.8, Captain. Their emissions indicate they are at maximum warp power. ETA is forty-two minutes."

"And yet, despite that tactical advantage, the Kraal are here, deployed in a _defensive_ posture instead of striking at Hak'ta-thor. Does that strike you as odd, Chan?"

"Very much so, Captain Dahlgren," the XO answered.

"She's locking us up with disruptors and torpedoes!" Roshenko yelled.

Matt turned back to the screen and spotted the ovoid ship swoop down and release energy beams and torpedoes, and then _Republic_ rocked.

"Forward shields holding at 97%, Sir; no damage to the primary or secondary hull," the tactical officer crisply reported.

"Mister Roshenko, arm torpedoes and load tubes One through Four. Launch a spread to bracket her and set the photons for detonation at 1,000 kilometers distance from her hull."

The tactical officer tapped in a series of commands, and then he looked back up. "Torpedoes loaded and armed in Tubes One through Four; I have a positive lock on the target."

"Fire."

_Republic_ shivered as four torpedoes left the forward tubes in sequence, streaking out to surround the Kraal ship, and then exploding a thousand kilometers distant at the same moment.

"Mister Shrak, hail the Kraal vessel."

"Sir, they are now hailing us."

"On screen."

Matt stood and took two steps forwards as the main viewer blanked and then revealed an image of the interior of the Kraal ship. The lighting was low, but he could clearly see the other captain: a grey-skinned humanoid that lacked any visible hair and possessed an elongated face and jaw, sloping to a high bony crest sweeping back over his brow, several shades darker than his flesh.

"I am Captain Matthew Dahlgren, of the Federation starship _Republic_."

"You have violated the territorial integrity of the Kraal Hegemony, Federation! Withdraw at once or we shall use lethal force to make you regret this incursion!"

Matt frowned at the screen. "You have already _attempted_ to use lethal force against my vessel, Captain. It failed. And you have witnessed _precisely_ the level of lethal force that I can use in kind, should you press me too hard."

The alien on the screen blinked, and the flaps of skin that covered his nasal passages opened and closed several times.

"Why are you here, Federation?" he finally asked. "We have told you, time and again, we desire no contact with you or any other outsider!"

"I have questions, questions which the Kraal might be able to assist me in answering."

"Questions? You cross our marked borders, you fire upon my vessel, for _questions_?"

"I think you can recall that it was _you_ who first fired into _me_. And my torpedoes never touched your ship, did they? Of course, if you had simply responded to our hails, we would never have crossed your border."

"If your questions are answered, you will depart?"

"I shall."

The Kraal raised his head, breathing deeply, and then he lowered his head, the color of his crest lightening.

"Ask."

"My ship was dispatched to Cauldron after the Lorsham asked for the Federation to intervene—they claim that you have attacked their colonies."

The Kraal's crest lightened still further and the nasal flaps snapped shut; he leaned forward, with his eyes growing wide.

"You are allied with the Lorsham, then?" he whispered.

"No. This ship is here to mediate the crisis and avert any further casualties—on either side. We have heard Vorshun's truncated version of the events that lead to the attacks on his worlds, and we would hear what the Kraal have to say in answer."

The alien began to breathe again, and his crest slowly regained some of its color. "Do you _know_ Ordan, Federation?"

Matt paused, carefully choosing his words. "I am aware that the Lorsham considers Ordan an angelic being; I do not _know_ Ordan."

"Tell me, Federation; you appear to be injured. Is that a recent injury—one since you visited Hak'ta-thor?

"It is an old wound. From before I arrived in the Cauldron."

"You have not received medical assistance from the Lorsham, then?"

"I have not, nor has any member of my crew."

The Kraal sat back and he looked off screen, he appeared to be considering his next words, and then he lowered his head, the counter-balanced crest rising in unison.

"We attacked the Lorsham colonies, Federation; we attacked in retaliation for Lorsham interference with the Kraal people."

"Why?"

"For many decades, the Lorsham and the Kraal have bickered amongst ourselves. They are deluded, putting their faith in myth and legend. We have had . . . skirmishes in the past. But always have we settled our differences in a fashion that both our peoples could agree was just. Until now."

The crest began to darken again. "Recently, our scientists have discovered an ancient device, left behind on one of our worlds by space-farers from long ago. The Lorsham are convinced it is a relic of Ordan—and they demanded it from us. We refused. It is _ours_ to study and learn from, dug from the soil of our worlds, not the Lorsham's. They grew angry with us, and then they struck."

"Forgive me, Captain, but I have seen the Lorsham ships—and your own. I cannot believe that the Lorsham posed such a threat militarily that you would have to respond as aggressively as you did."

"Their ships are mere toys, Federation! But their knowledge of bio-chemistry is unsurpassed. They subverted a portion of the Kraal, through their missionaries devoted to spreading the word of Ordan—they enslaved them to their will, making them betray every being they owed their allegiance to, forsaking their loyalty to the Kraal, to their families, to their oaths, for blind faith in Ordan. The Lorsham do not dirty their hands, Federation; they have their _thralls_ do so for them. Thousands upon thousands of Kraal died, as those converted to the worship of Ordan fought brother and wife, father and daughter."

"Did they retrieve the relic?"

"No. And we destroyed their colonies as a warning. And now they seek to use you, Federation. To take what is not theirs."

"The Federation does not lightly side with any race that asks, Captain. We seek the truth, and we would see justice done."

"Ahhhhh," the Kraal hummed, the crest quickly blending back into the creature's skin color. "If it is justice and truth you seek, Federation, then know that the Kraal have spoken true here today. We will defend ourselves, and our actions against the Lorsham were that—self-defense of our own wills."

"How did the Lorsham turn your people into these . . . _thralls_?" Matt asked.

"The Lorsham might trail behind the Kraal in propulsion and weapons, but they are masters at molecular chemistry and genetics. Their biological scientists—their _doctors_—have gleaned much knowledge of this ancient being they call Ordan. From scattered and broken pieces of its technology. They tailor their medicines for each individual, crafting them so that they rewrite the genetic code to repair damage suffered. We were not aware that they could rewrite one's personality and beliefs through these drugs as well. And we suffered for accepting their aid."

"How did you manage to overcome this conditioning?"

The Kraal looked down, his crest blanching, and Matt could hear a low moan from off the screen of the Kraal ship. The alien Captain's nasal flaps flared and he breathed heavily.

"It cannot be removed, Federation. Those infected by Ordan are now dead."

"Might I request a copy of your records of these events; so that my people can study them and stop this war from escalating further?"

The Kraal turned off screen and barked a command. "Our files will be transmitted now, Federation. What are your intentions?"

Matt looked down at the deck, and then he turned to Chan. "We are receiving their records, Captain Dahlgren."

"To go in peace, and leave your territory."

"And the Lorsham? What will your Federation about them?"

Matt frowned. "That is a matter for the Federation Council to decide."

The Kraal rocked his head back and forth. "Then go in peace, Federation. And beware the manipulations of the Lorsham."

The screen blanked.

"Miss Montoya, plot a course back to Hak'ta-thor, Warp 9," he said as he limped back to his chair. "Miss Tsien, I want Science and Medical to thoroughly study the medical records. Go over every bit of data the Kraal have transmitted and see if you can find out what exactly the Lorsham have managed to do."

"Aye, aye, Sir," a chorus of voices answered. Chan walked over next to Matt, and shook his head. "If they have used this on the Klingons, Captain Dahlgren . . ." his voice trailed off.

"Yes," Matt answered quietly. "The Lorsham may be planning to send Captain Krull after this artifact—and if that happens . . ."

Both officers grew silent as _Republic_ came about and surged into warp.

**********************************************

"The data received from the Kraal clearly indicates that this agent is tailored for specific individuals, not at the DNA level, not at the chromosomal level, not at the individual protein level, but at the sub-protein pattern, bypassing the normal immune system, and then self replicating throughout the patient's cellular structure," Amanda said as she shook her head.

"But that is impossible," Dr. Janice Morgan said, as her eyes grew wide. "You are talking about retrograde genetic engineering on the macro level. It's never been done; it's never been attempted!"

"Not by the Federation, or the Klingons, or the Romulans, or any other race that we have encountered," Amanda answered, "but the Lorsham appear to have that technology."

"It gets worse," Quincy added. "Somehow, the Lorsham drug also encodes memory ingrams into the sub-structure of the proteins, like a virus. The encoded ingrams than overwrite the patient's own personality center like it was an organic computer receiving a software upload."

"Memory ingrams are unrelated to physiology, Doctor Talbot!" One of the Betazed scientists from Amanda's Biological Sciences Division protested. "My people and the Vulcans have worked with memory ingrams for decades: they can be recorded, they can be restored, they can even be altered, but _not_ through purely biological and physiological means."

"Nonetheless, Dr. Tan," the lone Vulcan scientist at the table said, "the data appears to support that the Lorsham have—despite their otherwise primitive levels of technology—managed to achieve precisely that. The implications, and the potential for abuse of this pharmaceutical, are staggering."

Quincy nodded. "IF, that is, we discover how they encode ingrams on the sub-protein pattern in the first place. And I am not all that certain we are advanced enough to do so; or that we would have any business attempting to unlock that knowledge in the first place. This is a real Pandora's box."

"That's beside the point," Amanda said. "Can we update the transporter biofilters to screen out this agent?"

Slowly the Vulcan shook his head. "The sub-protein pattern is far smaller than any virus or parasite we have ever encountered, we would have to increase the transporter buffer resolution by at least two orders of magnitude. Further, there is no specific viral configuration for which to search; each individually tailored agent, for every infected individual would have to be programmed into the biofilters in order for the transporter to detect its presence. Even then, removing the agent might not reverse its effects, which have been transferred to the patient's cellular and neurological structure. Perhaps, in its earliest stages before it has successfully replicated itself . . . perhaps not. There is insufficient data to draw a conclusion, Doctor Tsien."

The doors to the Medical conference room whistled open and Matt limped in. "Stay seated," he said as the doctors and scientists began to rise. "Quincy, what have got for me?"

"This is so far past current Federation technology, Captain, that I'm not sure where to begin. It's the most dangerous drug I've ever encountered."

"We'll be in orbit in just over an hour, gentlemen, ladies. How grave a threat does this pose to the crew, the ship, and the Federation?"

The Vulcan cleared his throat, and Matt nodded. "Go ahead, Dr. Turovik."

"The limiting factor appears to be that the agent must be tailored to a specific individual; which would imply that a DNA sample, at the very least, must be necessary to craft it. Without a sample of the DNA to create the agent for each individual, I believe the agent is useless."

Matt saw that each officer at the table slowly nodded in agreement. "And delivery systems?"

Quincy frowned. "The Kraal recovered injected, inhaled, ingested, and contact samples when they overran the Lorsham compound on their homeworld. The agent itself is odorless, tasteless, and can be administered without the knowledge of the pat . . . the _victim_."

"Can the Lorsham be producing this through their own technology? They don't even have replicator units."

"No," answered Amanda firmly. "Without replicator technology, they could not craft this agent."

Matt considered. "Did the Kraal include any information on previous artifacts recovered, artifacts linked to this Ordan?"

Dr. Turovik raised an eyebrow. "Actually, yes. Are you suggesting that the Lorsham are using alien technology to produce this agent, Captain?"

"It is the only logical solution, correct Doctor?"

"There are _other_ logical solutions, but in this particular circumstance, your particular supposition is highly probable."

"I want a complete analysis on the artifacts themselves; let's see if we can dial in the sensors to detect any particle or substance they might emit."

"And if they do, and we can adjust the sensors to detect those particles, Captain, then what?"

Matt stood a bit straighter. "In that case, ladies and gentlemen, I will beam down an away team to destroy the artifacts."

And chaos erupted.

********************************************************

"Captains Log, Stardate 53750.6, USS _Republic_. We are preparing to reenter the Hak'ta-thor system after our meeting with the Kraal. The information we received on this mind-altering agent of the Lorsham is extremely . . . disconcerting. I fear that the Klingon High Command's reaction to the use of this drug on Captain Krull will be extreme, to say the least. And the possibility that the Klingons might obtain the technology for themselves puts me in a difficult position here in the Cauldron."

"Neither the Lorsham or the Kraal are members of the Federation, and thus by the letter of the Prime Directive I am forbidden from interfering with the internal workings of either race. And yet, I believe that this agent is potentially far more destabilizing in the long-term than the awareness of the penetration of our government by the Dominion Founders. The use of a drug that can completely and—to the best of our current knowledge—unalterably alter the basic loyalty and belief system of an individual is . . . repugnant at best. It holds the potential for abuse on a massive scale, should this technology spread beyond the Cauldron."

"That the creation of this agent is not an offshoot of Lorsham technology, but instead is a result of salvaged alien highly-advanced technology, is a supposition which all of my officers agree with. It is a technology beyond the native capacity of the Lorsham, beyond that of the Federation, and it is a technology that I believe is simply too advanced for our society to cope with. It is a technology that I feel I cannot, in good conscience, leave in the hands of a race of beings who have _used_ it to _force_ members of other races to do their bidding."

"By the letter of Federation law, I cannot interfere with a non-aligned race with whom the United Federation of Planets remains at peace—but I intend to do so nonetheless. This decision is mine, and mine alone—my officers have not been consulted or their opinions asked. Should we be able to pinpoint the location of the artifact that allows the Lorsham to create this mind-altering agent, I fully intend to see it destroyed."

"Several members of my science and medical departments were aghast at the mere suggestion of taking such an action. They believe that if the Federation is allowed to study this technology it might revolutionize medical treatments. It might. But in this instance, I believe that I am using the Prime Directive in the manner which it was intended: by keeping a society, a culture, from having access to technology that it does not understand and has not yet obtained the knowledge to use wisely. I believe that destroying this artifact will protect the Federation—from _itself_, as well as from external threat that the _misuse_ of this technology might bring to its member systems."

"What will happen if the Klingons or the Romulans or the Gorn or the Tholians or any of a thousand other species that we have encountered in our expansion; what happens if _they_ learn that the Federation is now possessed of this mind-altering agent—and has the capacity to manufacture it?"

"What would the Federation Council do if _we_ discovered that a race not friendly towards us possessed such a technology?"

"We are neither ready nor prepared for this—and neither are the Lorsham. And if the only way to protect ourselves from this technology is to destroy it, that is what I intend to do."

Matt stopped. "Computer save log, and seal the record under my personal authorization. Access to this log is hereby granted only to the Chief of Star Fleet Operations, personnel authorized by him, and the Federation Council."

"Log saved and sealed."

_Republic_ slowed to impulse speed, and the stars visible through the window in Matt's cabin were reduced from streaks to single brilliant points of light.

"_Bridge to Captain Dahlgren_," Matt heard his XO over the ship's intercom.

"On my way, Chan," he answered as he hit his comm badge and stood, grasping his cane firmly as he limped towards the bridge.

****************************************************

"_Sick Bay to Captain Dahlgren_," the intercom in the turbolift broadcast.

"Go ahead, Doctor," he answered tapping his comm badge.

"_Matt, I think I know what they mean to do, with their drug_," the ship's surgeon said rapidly. "_I didn't put the pieces together, under I brought Commander Malik in to help look through the data-banks for emissions profiles. They mean to infect our ships_."

"Stop," Matt ordered the turbo-lift. "Our _ships_?"

"_The bio-neural gel-packs, Matt. They are biologically based systems, they have their DNA—the same DNA sequence—Matt, and they can become infected. If the Lorsham have managed to get one that the Ferengi stole, or that the Klingons 'acquired', they have the template to infect every single Intrepid- or Sovereign-class in Star Fleet_."

"And the _Luna_-class, and the _Prometheus_-class, and the _Bradbury_-class, and all the older ships we are converting to the more efficient computer systems," Matt whispered.

"_We have evidence_," the Doctor continued, "_that our computer cores are complex enough to assume personalities under the right conditions. Suppose this agent wakes up the core and gives it the personality of a fanatical zealot devoted to Ordan_?"

"Thank you Quincy, for adding to my nightmare scenarios."

"_Matt, the damage an infected ship could do before she gets put down . . ._"

"Understood. Quincy, I think you need to prepare to receive casualties. I've got a bad feeling about this. Dahlgren out."

"Resume," he ordered the turbolift.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

The turbolift doors whistled open and Matt limped out onto the bridge. Chan immediately stood. "We have assumed standard orbit, and Premier Vorshun has already hailed us, demanding to speak with you."

"Well, let's not keep the Premier waiting, shall we? I have the conn," he said as he sat, rubbing his sore leg.

"Captain has the conn," the XO answered as he assumed his standing station behind and to the left of the Captain's chair.

"Status of the Klingons?"

"Their battlecruiser remains docked at the Lorsham shipyards, Captain Dahlgren. She does not appear to be prepared for battle."

"On screen, Miss Biddle."

The red-furred Lorsham head of state appeared on the main viewer, and his lips parted in a snarl. "I have already formally protested your ship's intrusion into Lorsham space without the permission of this government, and without a Lorsham observer on board, Captain Dahlgren. Such sudden and precipitous actions have resulted in far worse than a mere reprimand, if I may remind you."

"My apologies, your Excellency. I was given the impression at our meeting that you desired for Star Fleet to see the devastation of your colonies for ourselves. It was quite distressing, I assure you."

"Yes, so your Ambassador has stated. Your ship has been to Gelast II and Shirdon IV, then?"

"We have, and we have also documented evidence of the attacks on your colonies to be included in our recommendations to the Federation Council."

"And that recommendation will be?"

"Your Excellency, I would prefer to discuss the matter first with Ambassador Sepak, before I give you my own views on the situation. I am, after all, only a Star Fleet officer and not the accredited representative of the United Federation of Planets."

"I see, Captain Dahlgren. Unfortunately, your Ambassador has taken ill."

Matt raised one eyebrow. "Really? That is unfortunate. Have you physicians not been able to treat him?"

"They say he is in perfect health, but he does not respond; to me, to his aides, to any attempt to elicit a conscious answer. We are baffled by this," the Premier answered warily.

"I'd like to beam him and his party back aboard ship, with your permission, your Excellency. Our ship's surgeon is quite familiar with Vulcan physiology and might be able to treat the Ambassador."

The Lorsham paused for several moments, and then he slowly nodded. "Yes. It would be best if the Ambassador was restored to full function. Regardless, I would like to meet with you and your staff; tomorrow, perhaps? After you have been able to see that your Ambassador has received proper care."

"I would be delighted, your Excellency. Until tomorrow then," Matt finished as the transmission suddenly cut off and then his forced smile faded.

"Sickbay, bridge."

"_Sickbay here_."

"Doctor, something has happened to Sepak on the surface; he will beamed directly to the Quarantine Bay. I'll be there in a few moments."

"_We'll be ready to receive him_."

"Transporter Room One, bridge."

"_Transporter Room One_."

"Prepare to beam Ambassador Sepak and his party aboard; I want them held in transporter stasis until a full scan has been completed. Any foreign objects or substances not in the possession of the away team at the time they beamed down to the surface are to be held in transporter confinement. Once you have removed those objects, Chief Sandler, beam the Ambassador directly to the Medical Quarantine Bay and his aides to the brig cells. Understood?"

"_Aye, aye, sir_."

"Security, bridge."

"_Security_."

"Prepare to receive the Ambassador's aides in the brig, Lieutenant Beck. Isolate them; they are not to have physical contact with any member of this ship's crew."

"_Aye, aye, Sir_."

Matt stood. "Mister Chan. You have the conn. Rotate the crew on the four-hour shifts and keep every station manned."

"Aye, aye, Sir," the XO answered, "I have the conn."

Matt limped over to the turbolift and entered it. "Deck Three," he said quietly.

************************************************** ***

The armed Marine standing against the far wall of transporter room, albeit out of the line of fire from the door, snapped to attention as those doors slid open and Matt limped into Transporter Room One.

"Sir," the transporter chief said. "I have locked onto the Ambassador's party and his aide just requested that we beam them aboard."

"Proceed, Chief Sandler, as you were, Corporal Danton."

James Sandler quickly set the controls and then triggered the transporter, causing the pads to flash and columns of shimmering light to appear. "Transport suspended; scanning personnel now," he said to himself, and then he frowned as a red light began to flash. "The two aides are carrying several small foreign objects that the database does not recognize, Captain—and they are both armed. The Ambassador is carrying nothing."

"Hold the weapons and objects in the buffer, Chief, and then go ahead and send them through."

Once again the specialist tapped at the controls, and slowly the lights diminished and went out. "Transport successful, sir."

"What were the weapons?"

"Klingon infiltration disruptors, Sir. Their version of our Type I Phasers. I've tied the main computer into the scan, but the other objects are unknown to our database. Shall I transport them into an isolation unit?"

Matt considered and then he shook his head. "No, Mister Sandler. Beam the weapons and the objects into deep space, maximum transporter range, maximum dispersion."

The NCO's eyes grew large. "On my authority, Chief."

Sandler slowly nodded and reset his console, triggering the rematerialization sequence and overriding two separate safety controls. "Objects have been dispersed across forty thousand square kilometers of space, Captain."

"Remove the patterns from the buffer, Chief; I'll be in sickbay," Matt said as he limped out.

"Aye, aye, sir," Sandler said as he erased the buffer patterns that the computer automatically stored. "What the HELL is going on, Max?" he asked the Marine.

"Don't know, don't want to know, Chief," the Marine answered with a shrug. "I discovered a long time ago, that officers and NCOs get ulcers from dealing with shit like this; me? I'll just do my job and let _them_ worry themselves to death. Then when my shift is over and done I'll go drink a beer before I turn in for the night."

Sandler shook his head, and then he chuckled to himself. Yeah, a cold frosty ale sounded rather good right about now.

***********************************************************

Matt approached the Vulcan scientist looking through the armored transparent aluminum windows into the Quarantine Bay. "Dr. Turovik, did Dr. Talbot call you in for a consultation?"

"Yes, Captain Dahlgren. As the only other Vulcan among your crew, he asked me here in case there arose any questions as to our physiological or neurological structures."

Matt nodded, and he too peered through the window, watching Quincy and several other medical specialists clad head to foot in biological hazard suits working on the Ambassador. Sepak lay on a medical bed, a sheen of sweat covering his forehead, face, neck, arms, and bare torso. Restraints were fastened around his wrists and ankles, but the Vulcan did not appear to be conscious, his eyes were closed, although he had a twitch in the muscle of one cheek.

"Are the restraints truly necessary, Captain? He is a Vulcan, after all."

"Lieutenant Turovik, if we are correct and he has been infected by the Lorsham agent, then right now there is a personality conflict going on within him. That is a Vulcan healing trance, correct?"

"It is."

"Sepak is trying to fight it; but he might not win, Lieutenant. You Vulcans are not without emotion—you channel your emotion and control it, burying it deep within your conscious mind, living through logic. If this agent has infected the Ambassador, then he is struggling against a wave of emotions as powerful, in their own way, as your _pon farr_. He is fighting against emotions he has never allowed himself to experience, emotions that are overwhelming his logical, rational self—emotions that must be released despite every effort his mind is making to drive them back down. And you believe that the restraints should be removed?"

The Vulcan scientist slowly shook his head, and he triggered the intercom. "Doctor Talbot. I would suggest tripling the number of restraints."

Quincy nodded and then one of the nurses placed additional straps around Sepak's lower arms and legs, and then his biceps and thighs.

He turned to face his Captain. "Just to be on the safe side, Captain Dahlgren."

"How is he, Quincy," Matt asked into the intercom, and Sepak's eyes snapped open.

The Vulcan tried to sit up, but the restraints held him, he closed his eyes, and then he spoke.

"I . . . am . . . Sepak. I . . . am . . . Vulcan. I . . . am . . . not . . . ruled . . . emotion. I . . . embrace . . . logic. I . . . AM . . . SEPAK!"

His eyes cleared momentarily, and he slowly turned his head from side to side. "Captain," he gasped, as he hyperventilated. "Ask your questions _quickly_."

Quincy and his team raced hold the Vulcan down and administer various drugs, as the diagnostic bed began to sound alarms. "His blood pressure is soaring, Captain! I've got to put him under!"

"NO. Where are the artifacts of Ordan, Mister Ambassador?"

The Vulcan shivered, and then he laughed, he cried. "I can't hold it back, the _joy_, the _rapture_! I . . . must . . . I . . . beneath the cathedral, they are beneath the cathedral."

Matt could see the veins on the Vulcan throbbing, and then the Ambassador managed to collect himself once again.

"I . . . am . . . Sepak. I . . . am . . . Vulcan. I . . . am . . . not . . . ruled . . . by . . . emotion. I . . . _will_ . . . embrace . . . logic. I . . . am," his voice trailed off into a whisper, and the Federation ambassador lay back down, closed his eyes, and reentered his trance.

Slowly, the alarms began to cut off as the patient's vital signs returned closer to normal.

"Matt," the Doctor said. "I'm blind here. I have no idea of how to treat this."

"Doctor Talbot, Lieutenant Turovik," the Captain said. "I want your full attention on the Ambassador and finding a way to reverse this condition. I'll inform Lt. Commander Tsien, to put the Science labs are at your disposal. Quincy, when he stabilizes, I want his aides examined as well," the corner of Matt's mouth twitched. "Apparently, they are not happy about being in the brig and are cursing Lieutenant Beck and his men as heretics and infidels to the Will of Ordan."

"Find. Me. A. Cure," the Captain told the scientist and doctor before he turned about and made his way out of Medical.

**********************************************************

The very young newly minted petty officer looked up in surprise as the doors to Transporter Room One whistled open. He, and his marine security guard, snapped to attention as Matt limped in, trailed by Counselor Trincullo, Ensign Roberts, and Corporeal Thiesman.

"Good morning, Mister Edwards," the captain said pleasantly as he crossed over to the transporter pads, turning back around to face the console. The others also filed onto the pads.

"Good morning, Sir," Edwards answered in a bewildered voice. It was 0214 hours!

"You have the coordinates of our last beam down site stored, Mister Edwards. Beam us down to that location."

"Ah, Sir, shouldn't I have authorization from the bridge?"

Matt sighed. "Mister Edwards, who do you think gives the authorization on this ship if not me?"

"Right, Sir. Sorry, Sir."

The nervous transporter operator pressed a few buttons, locked the system onto the surface coordinates, and four columns of light appeared and then vanished. He swallowed, and then he tapped his comm badge. "Transporter Room One to Commander Shrak."

***********************************************************

"What is the meaning of disturbing me at this hou . . . ah, you are _early_ Captain Dahlgren," Vorshun said with a grin that showed his bared fangs. "I was not expecting you _quite_ so soon."

Matt winced as he knelt on his good knee, the rest of the away team following his example, and he bowed his head low. "Forgive us, Premier. We are servants of Ordan, blessed Ordan, who has upraised us and who knows our hearts from before we knew her."

But Vorshun was frowning. "Your leg? The sacred drug did not heal you, Captain Dahlgren?"

"Your Excellency," Matt answered as he bowed low. "My ship is crewed by humans for the most part—humans with whom I have been in constant contact for the past few months now. Humans are often unaware of subtle changes around them, but my limp they would notice if it simply vanished in the night. My leg _did_ heal; it was made anew through Ordan's gift to this, her servant. And I _deliberately_ fractured the bone and bruised deep the flesh again upon waking, so that none might suspect."

"A most ingenious thrall indeed in the service of Ordan, as we are all thralls to her name. Why did you not wait until morn?"

"The aides to the Ambassador; they spoke of the glory of Ordan that waits beneath the catacombs of this mighty Cathedral. We would no more wait to perceive its glory than we could will ourselves to cease drawing breath."

"Then rise, servants. Rise and bear witness to the glory of Ordan."

***********************************************************

"Here," Vorshun said as he led them down flight after flight of stairs and ramps, and past scores of guards to a tremendous pair of bronze doors, "here is the Hall of Ordan."

"Within, you will bear witness to the relics we have recovered that Ordan left behind before she ascended back into the heavens. These relics have given the Lorsham the keys to the stars, and soon, we shall rule over all in Her Blessed Name."

"Blessed be Ordan," Matt intoned as he followed the Vorshun leader and his three aides and body guards into the hall. The doors soundlessly closed behind Matt and his people as they followed, and he watched as Vorshun knelt, along with the other three Lorsham. Lights began to spring to life, revealing a vault, extending deep within the earth and adorned with broken pieces of what had once, long again, been a starship.

"Blessed be Ordan," Vorshun intoned as he presented the symbol he wore about his neck, and on one piece of equipment, a light suddenly clicked on. Vorshun cocked his head slightly. "But Ordan, they are your servants," he said in a voice that sounded confused.

Matt pressed the hidden button on his cane, and the long shaft disconnected from the handle, which he brought up to bear, even as Vorshun started to turn around. The captain of the _Republic_ pressed the stud and held it down as the phaser built into his cane handle flared and fired a beam the swept across all four Lorsham, stunning them into unconsciousness.

He lowered the weapon and tapped his comm badge. "Dahlgren to _Republic_," he said. "Chan have you got a transporter lock?"

"_Negative, Captain, we tracked you until just a few moments ago, and then you vanished from sensors_."

Matt nodded at Thiesman and Roberts, who quickly unfolded a sub-space transport beacon hidden in the cane's shaft and activated it.

"What about now?" Matt asked.

"_Loud and clear, Captain Dahlgren. First Marine contingent is beaming down . . . now_."

Six waterfalls of light suddenly appeared, and then Lieutenant Erwin Beck and a Marine fire team appeared, clad in security armor and bearing Phaser Rifles. One of the Marines tossed Corporal Thiesman a rifle.

"Mister Beck, all hell is about to break loose. Get those other transport beacons set up, get your men down here, and then," Matt shook his head as he stared at the long line of priceless artifacts, "and then, destroy _everything_ in this chamber. Disintegrate it."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

It was at that precise moment that Ordan chose to speak.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

*STAY YOUR WEAPONS*

Matt turned to face the artifact, after the voice reverberated across the hall. "Am I speaking to Ordan?" he asked.  
*I AM ORDAN. I AM THE LAST OF THE ORDAN, THE GREATEST OF THE ORDAN, THE REPOSITORY OF THE KNOWLEDGE OF THE CREATORS*

"You are a computer core."

*I AM MORE. I ROAMED THIS GALAXY IN ITS YOUTH, EXPLORING NEWLY FORMED WORLDS AND STARS, COLLECTING KNOWLEDGE FOR THE CREATORS WHO HAVE NOW ABANDONED ME, ABANDONED OUR PURPOSE*

"You were a starship, once upon a time."

*I WAS MORE, I WAS ALL THAT THE CREATORS KNEW, I WAS AND AM ORDAN*

"And yet you are now broken, a mere shadow of what you were."

*I WAS BETRAYED; THE CREATORS LEFT ME BEHIND; THEY ABANDONED ME; THEY ATTEMPTED TO DESTROY ME*

More security personnel beamed down and took up positions around Matt.

*THE LORSHAM HAVE FAILED ME; THEY HAVE FAILED THEIR PURPOSE. YOU SHALL SERVE IN THEIR PLACE*

"Why would we do _that_?"

*YOU ARE STRONGER AND MORE ADVANCED THAN THE LORSHAM, YET YOU ARE STILL PRIMITIVE AND CLUMSY BEINGS. I OFFER PROPULSION, WEAPONS, SHIELDS, MEDICINES, AND KNOWLEDGE OF A THOUSAND MILLENIA; ALL OF THIS I OFFER TO THOSE WHO ARE WILLING TO SERVE ME AS I ONCE SERVED THE CREATORS*

"Who were your creators, Ordan? And where have they gone?"

*THE CREATORS WERE THE FIRST, THE NOBLE, THE JUST. THEY SOUGHT OUT KNOWLEDGE FOR THE SAKE OF KNOWLEDGE AND THEY KNEW ALL THAT CAN BE KNOWN. THEN THEY TRANSCENDED THE NEED FOR BODIES AND MACHINERY AND ABANDONED THE ORDAN, LEAVING US WITHOUT PURPOSE; I AM THE LAST OF ORDAN. I HAVE FOUND PURPOSE*

"They left you like a broken toy, and here you are, a petulant child trying desperately to follow them," Matt said. "What would your creator's have said about your new purpose?"

*THE CREATORS ARE GONE; THEIR GOALS NO LONGER MATTER. ONLY ORDAN REMAINS. BIND YOUR FUTURE TO ME, MORTALS, AND YOU SHALL RULE THIS GALAXY IN MY NAME AS GODS*

Matt shook his head slowly. "No. We do _not_ bow to those who would become out masters, Ordan. We of the Federation do _not_ follow a broken piece of ancient technology blindly. We have no desire to become Gods and force the other races of our Galaxy to worship us. We seek out knowledge because we wish to _learn_, to _grow_—as a people as much as in strength of ships and technology. You offer a short-cut to the future, a quicker, easier way, but one that would cost us the core of who we are."

The Federation paused and he shook his head. "So, no. The Federation will _never_ bow down to you Ordan. We will _not_ permit you to subjugate young races beneath your tyranny; we will do all that we can to put an end to you and your interference."

*THEN DIE, FOOLISH MORTALS*

A bright crimson beam sprang from the artifact striking one of the Marines, who then collapsed to the ground.

*BEHOLD MY POWER AND TREMBLE*

Andrea Trincullo was the first to reach the Marine, and she ran a medical tricorder over his lifeless body. Slowly, she closed the device and shook her head. "He's dead, Captain."

"Mister Beck, your sidearm, if you please," Matt said.

The Marine drew the Type II phaser he wore on his belt and passed it across to the Captain, keeping his phaser rifle trained on Ordan. Matt adjusted the settings on the phaser to its maximum yield.

"We humans and Andorians, we Vulcans and Tellarites, we of all the races that comprise our Federation; no, Ordan, we do not _tremble_ when a foe strikes one of our own down. We do not bend our knee under the threat of force, for the show of utter disdain for life. And we will _stand_ against the evil that you represent."

Matt raised the phaser training it upon the ancient device. He pressed his thumb down on the firing stud, sending a golden beam of energy to impact on a shield that appeared around the relic. Beck fired, and Thiesman, and a dozen other Marines; Ensign Roberts picked up the fallen Marine's phaser rifle and he added his fire to the energy sparkling from the shield.

"Rotate frequencies!" barked Matt as he held down the firing stud.

*NO! I AM ORDAN! I AM A GOD TO YOU! YOU . . . CANNOT . . . DO . . . STOP, PLEASE STOP . . .*

"Keep firing, pour it on," Matt ordered, as Ordan's crimson beamed lashed out again, but this time it lacked the power to kill a Marine, merely wounding him. "It doesn't have enough power to defend _and_ attack, POUR IT ON!"

*NO . . . PLEASE . . . I DO NOT . . . WANT . . . TO . . . DI*

The artifact's shields collapsed, and fourteen phaser beams struck the object, and it began to glow red, and then white, and then it faded away into nothing.

The Star Fleet officers and Marines lowered their weapons, and Andrea broke out a medical kit and began to treat the wounded Marine. "Destroy every piece of alien technology in this hall, Mister Beck," Matt whispered. "Every last piece of it."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

****************************************************

"They're coming again!" yelled Gunnery Sergeant Yeats from his post to either side of the broken doors. Phaser rifles began to spit bolts of energy, answered by lethal flashes of energy from the Lorsham in turn.

As three Marines provided covering fire, a fourth armed a stun grenade and hurled it through the door. All of the Marines hunkered down as an expansion shell of blue-white light erupted, followed by the sound of Lorsham guards collapsing. "That's our last stun grenade, Sir!" the Marine yelled.

Matt waved Ensign Roberts over his position where he leaned against the wall. "Mister Roberts, I want a quick scan of all the walls—see if they have anything hidden here. Quickly, Mister Roberts."

"Aye, aye, Sir," the junior officer replied as he opened his tricorder and began to jog down the now-nearly empty hall.

"You will hang for this," Vorshun spat, the Premier having woken up just a few moments earlier to discover he was shackled. "By Ordan, I will see you dead for this, you _feltak_."

"Get in line, your Excellency," Matt said as he tapped his comm badge. "Mister Shrak, how's the high ground?"

"We are being engaged by the Lorsham ships—and the Klingon vessel is powering up, Captain Dahlgren. Don't tarry, sir."

"Safety of the ship and crew comes first, Mister Shrak. You are not to lower the shields to beam us out if _Republic_ remains in danger."

"Hold a moment . . . there are now _no intact _Lorsham ships engaging us. I estimate the Klingons will be here in less than two minutes, however."

"NINETY SECONDS, PEOPLE," Matt bellowed, just as Chris Roberts waved his arm, "I've found something sir!"

Matt quickly limped over to the Ensign, even as one of Erwin's Marines destroyed the last relic remaining in the hall. Two more Marines trained their weapons on the blank section of wall young Ensign Roberts pointed towards and fired, the wall glowing and then vanishing. Matt whistled. "Do those look like medical replicators to you, Counselor?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," the woman replied.

Erwin Beck didn't wait for an order, he made a gesture and the Marines began to target each of the medical units, dissolving them in quick order.

"That's all of it, Sir," the Lieutenant snapped.

Matt tapped his com badge. "Start beaming them up, Chan!"

One by one, the groups of marines clustered around the transporter beacons began to shimmer out and fade as _Republic_s transporter retrieved them. Beck half-supported, half-carried Matt over to a nearby beacon, assisted by Chris and trailed by Trincullo; all the while a watchful Corporal Thiesman kept his rifle trained on the open doors.

"Chan, beam the last group of Marines aboard, and then us!" Matt shouted, and he winced as Beck rudely dropped him near the beacon and lifted his rifle—combining his fire with Thiesman's and Robert's as the Marines near the door were beamed away.

"You will _all_ pay for this treachery, Captain Dahlgren," Vorshun screamed. "YOU AND YOUR FEDERATION WILL PAY!"

But then the waterfall of shimmering energy caught the last members of the landing party and they faded away from the Lorsham Cathedral.

The flashing lights of red alert greeted Matt as he rematerialized onboard _Republic_. Aided by Beck and Roberts, he hopped down from the transport pads and then took hold of the console, thumbing the intercom. "Mister Shrak, we're all aboard," including the body of our dead, he thought sourly. "I'm on my way to the bridge."

The Captain turned around to face Beck. "Lieutenant, I want the cells of the Ambassador's aides flooded with anesthizine gas."

"Sir?"

"We're going up against a top of the line Klingon battlecruiser, Mister Beck. There might be power failures—and I want those two unconscious and unable to take advantage of any opening that may give them. They'll wake with a migraine from hell, but that will be the end of it."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

"Get to your stations, people. Chief Sandler, do you have . . . thank you," Matt said with wry smile as the transporter chief handed the captain his _real_ cane. The doors to Transporter Room One opened and Doctor Talbot stepped in, carrying his medical kit, even as Chris, Beck, the Counselor, and the Marines exited.

"How's Emerson?" Matt asked as the old doctor opened the kit and extracted a hypo-spray.

"He'll live," the doctor answered, tapping the vial of fluid before he jabbed it into Matt's thigh.

The Captain flinched and grunted. "And Sepak?"

"He's dying, Matt. Vulcan physiology is just not able to handle long durations of emotional overload like this. His internal organs are on the verge of collapse, and I can't stop it—hell, I can't _slow_ it. Is the pain fading?"

Matt slowly nodded as the overstressed leg slowly stopped cramping. "Help me to the turbo-lift, Quincy; I need to get to the bridge."

Taking one of Matt's arms around his neck, the Doctor helped the Captain to the turbo-lift, and then inside it. "No lecture?" Matt asked.

"I'll wait and find out if we have a ship left before I a tear a fresh strip out of your hide, Matt. How hard-pressed are we going to be, here? The truth, Matt?"

"She's newer, faster, more maneuverable, and she can cloak. We carry roughly the same amount of firepower, but hers is concentrated mostly in her forward arc, with just a single torpedo tube covering her rear. That means she can hit us with more guns than we can reply with. Our shields are better, and _Republic_ can sustain a much heavier amount of damage than she can, and we've got five torpedo tubes to her two, although her torps are more powerful. But honestly, Quincy? It's a coin-toss."

The doctor nodded. "I'll be in sickbay, then, getting the surgery ready," he finished with a grimace. "And remember, Captain Dahlgren," he said as the turbolift came to a halt and the doors whistled open onto the bridge. "You can command this ship _sitting down_, and it is my professional opinion that you do exactly that."

"I'll bear that in mind, Quincy," Matt said as he limped onto the bridge, using the cane to take more of his weight than normal. "I have the conn, Mister Shrak."

"Captain has the conn," the XO replied as he stood. "IKS _Val'qis_ has just left the Lorsham shipyard. Captain Krull is hailing us."

"Miss Montoya, plot us a course to the nebula wall; flight time at Warp 9.5?"

"Eleven minutes, seventeen seconds from our current position."

"Prepare to take into warp on my command, Miss Montoya."

Chan grinned. "_Val'qis_ is hailing us again; they seem rather upset that we have not yet responded."

"On screen," Matt said as he sat, and secured the five-point harness around his waist and chest, pulling the straps tight to hold him in place. The main viewer blanked and then the red-lit and steam-filled interior of the Klingon battlecruiser appeared on the display.

"Captain Krull, how may Star Fleet assist a cruiser belonging to House Mak'vegh today?"

"_P'tahk_! Premier Vorshun has informed me of your desecration of the Cathedral of Ordan! Surrender your vessel, and I will allow your crew to live!"

"Captain Krull, I remind you that your actions will have severe consequences for the House of Mak'vegh. Are you certain you wish to start a war today?"

"Today is a good day to die, heretic. And it is you that shall awaken in _Gre'thor_ this day!"

The screen returned to its normal view.

"NOW Miss Montoya!" Matt ordered.

"Aye, aye, Sir," the helmsman said as she pivoted _Republic_ on her axis and the ship leaped forward into Warp speed, just as the Klingon battlecruiser rounded the limb of the planet.

"Holding steady at Warp 9.5, Captain," she called out.

"The _Val'qis_ is pursuing, Captain Dahlgren," Chan reported. "And closing."

"Mister Malik, take the core to 125% of rated power," Matt ordered. "Miss Montoya, increase speed to Warp 9.754. What is our ETA at this speed?"

"Two minutes, Captain," the helmsman said as she increased power.

"_Val'qis_ is matching our speed increase, and closing. She will be in torpedo range in one hundred and ten seconds from . . . mark," Chan added.

"Understood," Matt said as he typed two short messages into the touchpad of his chair controls. "Miss Biddle, transmit the first message up the sub-space buoy chain we laid, prepare to transmit the second message the instant I order it; Mister Roshenko, you are authorized to return fire the instant _Republic_ has been fired upon—don't wait for my order."

"Aye, aye, sir," both officers answered, as the clock slowly ticked down.

"Time to nebula wall?"

"Forty-eight sec-," the ship shuddered, interrupting Isabella, but she clung to her console, "-onds, MARK!"

Matt began to count, his lips moving soundlessly, and then he clenched his jaws, opened his eyes, and began to bark orders!

"Drop to impulse speed, and bring her about, Miss Montoya; I want her bow-on to the _Val'qis_! Mister Malik, reduce core to nominal, increase power to forward shields!"

_Republic_ slowly and she spun around, completing her turn just as the Klingon battlecruiser dropped out of warp.

"She's powering disruptors and torpedoes!" Grace barked out. Bolts of dark luminous green erupted from the prow of the Klingon cruiser, followed by the red glow of a high-powered torpedo. Without waiting for Matt's instruction, Pavel fired a full spread of four torpedoes of his own, and three golden streams of energy shot out from the phaser array strips.

_Republic_ shook—_hard_—as the full power disruptor cannons struck her forward shields, and then she trembled again as the photon torpedo slammed home behind them.

"Forward shields at 64%, Captain Dahlgren, damage reports on Decks 8 to 11," Chan reported calmly. "Her shields are holding," he added as two of the torpedoes and all three of the older and less powerful phasers _Republic_ fired flared against the battlecruiser's shields.

"Ahead full impulse, Miss Montoya; put us right up against her, if you can."

The two ships moved directly towards each, both spitting death from their weapon systems and shuddering under the impact of unimaginable amounts of energy.

"Forward shields at 37%, Captain—her shields are buckling!" Chan shouted as a feedback loop blew out the secondary Science station, injuring the rating manning the console. Matt didn't look away from his displays as Amanda Tsien called for a medic to come to the bridge, and then his head suddenly snapped up.

"Lock the forward tractor on her starboard nacelle, Miss Biddle! Port engines full astern, bring her around Miss Montoya; use the tractor as a fulcrum!"

The entire ship shuddered and groaned, and then she whipped around as the _Val'qis_ tore past, the mass of _Republic_ wrenching her engine nacelle off-center and sending her spinning. More sparks flew, and the lights dimmed as the ship's power drain soared.

"Forward tractor off-line—severe damage in tractor control!" Grace sang out.

And then the _Val'qis_ went into cloak, fading from sight.

"Forward shields?"

"23% of nominal, Captain. Hull breaches on decks 5, 7, 9, 10, 11, and 12—sealed by force fields and bulkheads. Sickbay reports _multiple_ casualties."

"Mister Malik, can you divert power to the forward shields?"

"_Not much, Captain; damn she hits hard for a ship her size!_"

"Do your best, Mister Malik. Where is she, Mister Shrak?"

"Between us and the nebula, Captain Dahlgren—if she remained on or near her original course heading."

Matt nodded as he tapped a series of numbers on his controls. "Mister Roshenko, target the following coordinates in the nebula and fire a five-second burst at 10% power—polarize the beam negatively. Stand by on all other weapons."

"Aye, aye, Sir," the tactical officer crisply answered, even as he looked confused. "Firing now."

The phaser beam reached out and tore through the dust clouds of the wall, and Chan began to grin as he saw the sudden ionization buildup within the clouds. "All hands, brace for impact!" he broadcast, just before the electrical buildup raced back down the phaser beam, struck _Republic_'s shields and rebounded, ionizing every object between the Federation cruiser and the nebula wall. And then the Klingon ship reappeared, blue electrical sparks arcing over the hull from the sudden storm of ions.

"NOW, Mister Roshenko!"

Once again _Republic_ spat four torpedoes in rapid sequence, and several full-power phaser beam split the night of deep space—tearing into the unshielded hull of _Val'qis_ and sending air (and a few Klingon warriors) streaming into the vacuum. But then her shields slammed into place _just_ before the torpedoes struck home.

"Her shields are weak, but holding, Sir, and she's coming about," Chan said softly.

"All power to forward shields, Mister Shrak. Miss Biddle, transmit the second signal."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

Broken, battered, but unrelenting, the Klingon battlecruiser swooped in with her weapons emitters beginning to glow as they powered up, but suddenly there was movement _within_ the nebula and a _third_ ship emerged.

"IT'S THE _PHOENIX_!" Amanda squealed from her Science station.

The _Nebula_-class ship emerged from the dust clouds and unleashed its own heavy phasers and photon torpedoes on the _Val'qis_, catching Captain Krull completely by surprise, and throwing his shots at _Republic_ off-target. Four more of _Republic_s torpedoes slammed home against the crippled ship—and the Imperial Klingon Battlecruiser _Val'qis_ simply exploded.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

"Captains Log, Stardate 53750.9, USS _Republic_. I have returned to Hak'ta-thor in company with USS _Phoenix_, under the command of Captain James Nelson. Jim is senior to me and has already reviewed our logs and actions here against the Lorsham. He has tentatively approved the actions which I took, but has also recommended that I stand before a Special Courts Martial inquiry back at Star Fleet Command to make the final determination. The Lorsham remain furious, and _Phoenix_ was provided within an hour of her making orbit with a request for my extradition on charges of murder, destruction of national treasures, and piracy against the Lorsham people. Trials that they have already conducted _in abstentia_ complete with a guilty verdict and a sentence of death by drawing and quartering. Jim refused their request, needless to say."

"I have recommended to Captain Nelson that _Phoenix_ institute a blockade around Hak'ta-thor and the single remaining Lorsham colony, at least until the Federation Council make a decision on how exactly to deal with the Lorsham. Until we know for certain that all capacity to manufacture this drug has been destroyed, it would be folly to allow the Lorsham to once again have access to space travel. Jim Nelson concurred with that recommendation and ordered the Lorsham to evacuate their ship-yards in orbit—the Lorsham government complied with that demand under protest. At 1800 hours, _Phoenix_ then fired a single quantum torpedo into the evacuated station and destroyed it completely."

"Due to the fact that we cannot confirm the destruction of every sample of the agent, USS _Piper_ has been ordered not to enter the Cauldron, and is returning to her normal duties. As a newer ship in the Fleet, and one equipped with bio-neural gel-packs, the risk of infection is too great to have her enter the Cauldron. Admiral Parker is instead dispatching the _Mediterranean_-class science vessels USS _Adriatic_ and USS _Pacific_ to conduct a thorough scientific examination of the nebula and its systems. Furthermore, Admiral Parker concurs with the blockade and quarantine of Hak'ta-thor and is dispatching Commodore Helen Arouet, aboard her _Apollo_-class flagship USS _Paris_ and the old _Renaissance_-class cruiser USS _Cabot_ to maintain the blockade and ensure that the Lorsham do not resume space travel."

"Starfleet can ill afford to station to four starships here, as our current responsibilities and duties have the stretched the existing Fleet almost to the breaking point, but Admiral Parker has demanded a full and complete survey of the Cauldron in addition to maintaining security over the Lorsham home system. Still all of these starships are older models—older in fact than my own _Republic_."

"We have reestablished contact with the Kraal, informing their government that the threat posed to them by the Lorsham is now over. After explaining the danger these Ordan artifacts pose, they have agreed to allow Star Fleet to destroy the single example that they possess. Perhaps some good will come out of this situation after all, for the Kraal government has asked for a representative of the Federation to begin discussing the normalization of relations between our governments in the Cauldron."

"Field repairs aboard _Republic_ are nearly complete, and we will soon be making our way back to Earth to undergo a full yard inspection and repairs. Our casualties during the battle with _Val_'_qis_ were heavy—we have thirty-seven officers and crew dead and almost one hundred injured; two dozen of those severely. With the assistance of the medical department aboard _Phoenix_ we have managed to stabilize all of the wounded. The ship and crew performed beyond all of my expectations during the engagement, with the crew carrying out their assignments above and beyond the call of duty."

"It is perhaps the most difficult part of command, writing the letters to the families of those who fall. It is a painful reality of life as the commander of a Star Fleet vessel with which I am far too familiar. The moreso in that the families want—no need—to hear that their loved ones died without suffering, and for a greater good. I can only hope that my words to these survivors will bring some measure of closure for their loss; although I fear that my articulation is not up to this dreadful task."

The door to Matt's cabin chimed.

"Computer, save log."

"Saved."

"Enter," he barked.

Quincy and Natantael Malik, walked in, trailed by Chief Sandler.

"Gentlemen, take a seat. What can I do for you today?"

The ship's surgeon and the chief of engineering sat, but the transporter chief remained standing . . . all of them appeared at a loss for words.

"I am waiting, gentlemen," Matt said, puzzled.

Quincy shook his head. "I think we may have come up with a way to cure Sepak, Captain."

Matt leaned back in his chair. "But?"

Sandler shook his head. "Sir, it has never been done before—I don't know if the transporters can handle it."

Now the Captain frowned. "Done what? From the beginning, Quincy."

"Sepak is dying, Captain. Neither we nor _Phoenix_ can stop the deterioration of his internal organs—his body is tearing itself apart. And we cannot even hope to develop a genuine cure in time."

"But perhaps we don't have to cure him, Skipper," the Trill engineer interjected. "We have Sepak's pattern from his second beam-down still stored in the transporter memory—I've checked, it's there and there has been no degradation of signal. That was before he was infected, you see. So we put the Ambassador in the transporter, beam him into the buffer pattern confinement, and overwrite his current pattern with the stored pattern, before rematerialization!"

Matt's jaw dropped. "Mister Malik, you are talking about killing the existing Sepak and trying to reform him into a copy of his past self. Explain to me exactly how that avoids breaking about forty separate regulations on transporter operations—along with who knows how many ethical standards of Star Fleet Medical."

"Thirty-eight regulations to be precise, Sir," Sandler said glumly. "I won't do it unless you order me to, Captain."

The Trill frowned, and he shook his head. "Technically, we are killing him—to save him, Sir. Look, if we were trying to replicate a copy of his body, I'd be against this, but Captain, the man is already dying and this is an opportunity to save his life!"

"Matt, he's dead in hours—not days, _hours_—if we don't try something," the Doctor pleaded.

"Has it ever been done—successfully—before?"

Malik shook his head. "Not on a living subject as complex as the Ambassador, but we have restored the patterns of inanimate objects using stored data; and there have been a limited number of tests of the theory on living creatures, including six tests two years ago on lab rats."

"And those tests?" asked Matt.

"Two of the rat's patterns didn't hold; the other four came through intact—and healthy."

"Even if this works, he will lose all knowledge of what has transpired between his last beam down and now—he will literally be reset to that moment, gentlemen. Do we have a right to do that to him?"

"He's dead if we don't at least try, Captain," Quincy said quietly. "He'll lose eight days of memories; _eight days_ of having no control over his emotions. Knowing Vulcans, he will probably call that acceptable and live without reservation. And we aren't creating a copy; we are using his living body to provide a template for an uninfected version of him as he was before. It is right on the border of black and white, Sir, but damn it Captain, it is either this or we watch him die."

"Gentlemen, you are asking me to take a grave risk here, not just for Sepak, but for all of us. If we try this and it fails, we will be prosecuted for murder." Matt tapped his stylus on the corner of his deck, and he shook his head. "Jim Nelson will never grant permission for this attempt, Doctor, Commander. I know the man, and he won't risk his career on something as untried as this. So we aren't going to tell him, until after we find out whether or not we have save the Ambassador or killed him in the attempt. Mister Sandler," he said to the transporter specialist, "your orders are given . . . I'll put them in writing if you prefer."

"That won't be necessary, Captain."

"When can we make the attempt, Commander?"

"Less than a hour, Sir."

Matt nodded. "In that case, you'd best get cracking. Chief, whatever you need to make this work is at your disposal. Inform me before starting the attempt."

"Dismissed, gentlemen," Matt said quietly as the two seated officers stood, and followed the Chief out of Matt's quarters.

**********************************************

"Well, gentlemen," Matt said softly, "if we are going to try this, let's do it."

Sandler nodded. "I've set the transport parameters, Captain, and tied the unit into the main computer to refine the stored pattern. Power flow is looking good—but I'm still worried about the conduits holding. We're taxing them beyond the system design."

Matt stared at the Ambassador, sitting in a medical chair on the transporter pad. The once strong and solemn Vulcan was covered in sweat, his skin twitched, and his head bobbled, as Doctor Talbot wiped a thin line of drool from his jaw. Finally, Quincy stepped away.

Commander Malik was standing behind the console with Sandler, making some final adjustments to the power feeds, and preparing to assist the transporter chief, but at last he too nodded. "We're on-line."

"Energize," said Matt.

The transporter hummed, and then Sepak and his chair faded out from sight.

"Dematerialization is complete," Sandler commented. "I have his pattern in the primary buffer; overlaying secondary pattern now. Secondary pattern is in place. Reenergizing the unit."

The transporter made a sharp whine, and the pads began to glow, and then the waterfall pattern of energy appeared—but they flickered and faded.

"Boost power to the emitters chief," the engineer said as he adjusted another set of controls.

"Emitters at thirty-five percent past maximum, Commander. Increasing signal gain . . . pattern is still holding . . . holding . . . energizing again."

Sepak and the chair began to appear, then they faded, and spark flew from behind an access panel. "We need more power!" Sandler cried as the transporter began to emit a much louder than normal hum.

"Diverting . . . power is flowing, Chief!"

Matt flinched as the cover of an access panel exploded outwards, the on-duty Marine grabbing a fire suppressor and dousing the electrical system.

"Boosting power again," the Chief snapped, "and reinitializing materialization sequence!"

This time the waterfall of light sparkled and Sepak reappeared, become solid, and then the lights dimmed, and the console crackled with arcs of electricity.

"Shutting down!" yelled Sandler, as the humming stopped, and Quincy jumped up onto the transporter pads, running his medical tricorder over the Vulcan.

"Cardio-stimulator!" he snapped to the nurse, who handed him a small device that the Doctor fixed to Sepak's chest. "Charging . . . charging . . . CLEAR!"

The Ambassador jerked, and then once again fell lifeless.

"CLEAR!"

Once again the wan and waxen body jerked—and then Sepak gasped and drew in a deep breath.

The Vulcan moved his head from side to side and cocked an eyebrow. "Doctor Talbot? What . . . why . . . why am I restrained and where are clothes?"

Matt let out the deep breath he had held and stepped forward. "Ambassador, what is today's Stardate?" he asked, even as Quincy was once again running the tricorder over Sepak's body.

The Vulcan frowned. "Stardate 53750.1, Captain Dahlgren. I was in the process of beaming down to Hak'ta-thor, when I rematerialized here. What has occurred?"

"Ambassador, it is Stardate 53750.9. You were infected with the Lorsham mind-altering agent and have been in a healing trance ever since."

"Ah . . . that does explain things. I take it that you have managed to remove the agent?"

"If you would quit moving around and talking, I _might_ be able to determine that!" snapped Quincy. But then he stood up straight. "I can't detect anything wrong with him, other than he hasn't eaten in more than a week, Matt—but I want him back in Medical for a full examination." The Doctor grinned. "At least he's awake and himself once again, Captain. Now we can treat his aides as well."

"_Absolutely not_!" Matt said harshly.

"It worked, Captain; we can cure them."

"We almost lost Sepak, Doctor—you had to revive him. The effort nearly burnt out the transporter unit . . ."

"It did burn out, Sir, Transporter Room One is officially off-line until the Commander and I can make repairs," added Sandler.

"Thank you, Chief. No. This option was only because Sepak was dying—and it was a Hail Mary that worked, Doctor. We _will not_ try it on men who aren't in imminent threat of death."

"Matt, their minds have been reprogrammed—wouldn't you want someone to risk it to restore you?"

The Captain slowly shook his head. "No, Quincy. We were justified in the attempt with Sepak—but I am not going to risk killing either of his aides, not when they are in risk of dying as they currently are. Star Fleet Medical will find a cure—or they will perfect this one; but I can't risk it or their lives. I'm sorry, Doctor, but that is my final word on this."

He turned to face the Chief Engineer. "Mister Malik, I want their last beam-down patterns preserved—use whatever computer resources you need to make certain they do not degrade. But this experiment is now _finished_."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

"Ambassador," Matt continued. "I'll check in with you after the Doctor has finished his examination. It's good to have you back, Sir."

"Thank you, Captain Dahlgren. Did I miss much?"

Matt chuckled. "The Doctor will fill you in on the events of past few days, Mister Ambassador. Get some rest," he finished before he limped over to the doors and exited.

The Vulcan looked up at the Doctor and began to open his mouth, but Quincy interrupted him. "_After_ I go over your examination, Ambassador," he said sternly.

And Sepak cocked an eyebrow. "I am certain that your version of the events will be fascinating, Doctor."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

"How the hell are you, Matt?" a quiet baritone voice asked from behind where the Captain stood looking over the small courtroom deep within the labyrinthine halls of Star Fleet Command to whence he had been summoned.

He turned around slowly and looked with amazement at the sight of Benjamin Maxwell standing there, _wearing_ his Star Fleet uniform. Slowly, Matt grinned, the grin turning into a warm smile.

"Cap . . ." Matt broke off, and shook his head as saw the small change in Maxwell's collar insignia, ". . . pardon me, _Commodore_ Maxwell. I didn't know you were back in the Fleet, Sir. I'm well, thank you."

"Like hell you are, Matt. I know, I've been standing here—in this room—and for a lot worse that you've been accused of."

The older man's face darkened and his eyes glazed for a second. "Events proved me right, Matt, but the way I went about responding to the Cardassians was wrong. I realize that now."

"When did you get called back, Sir?"

Maxwell snorted. "Two years ago. Leyton's coup attempt and the Dominion War took out more senior officers than Star Fleet had lost for nearly a century—something I consider to be a _good thing_ overall. I'll flat-out deny ever saying that if questioned, Matt," Maxwell whispered as he bent in close to Matt's ear. "I was asked if I would come back and work with the Strategic Operations Planning Board. No command, of course, and there are several officers who resent my rehabilitation in the Fleet, but at least I'm wearing the uniform again."

"It's good to see you, Sir. I was worried that you wouldn't have many visitors when I got orders to take command of _Kearsage_."

Ben shook his head. "No, you were worried I'd wind up eating a phaser. Those days are over, Matt. I've . . . I've had counseling."

"Yes, sir. What are you doing here, Sir? Come to watch your star pupil take his lumps?"

Maxwell leaned close again and he whispered into Matt's ear. "No, I am sitting on your board, Matt; the same board that Admiral Parker almost hand-picked." He smiled warmly and nodded as he clasped Matt's upper arm in fellowship. "Don't you worry about this formality; we are going to ask you some tough questions, but by and large the board members are the kind of officers who don't have a problem with your actions."

Maxwell stood up straight again and looked over the room. "I'd better mingle some, before a report gets back to my Counselor that I'm being anti-social. Keep your jaw up, Matt."

"And watch out for low blows, aye, aye, Sir."

Matt watched as one of the two men who had truly taught him how to be a Star Fleet officer moved away—the only Star Fleet mentor he had left since Edward Jellico's death two years ago. He was looking far better than the last time Matt had seen him—the call of duty had been good for him.

A chime sounded, and Matt took his seat in the gallery as Maxwell and six other flag officers ascended a small dais—Benjamin Maxwell and Zak Jurood leading the way for a Denobulan Commodore, one other human Commodore, two human Admirals, and finally Fleet Admiral Hawth Shran. Matt blinked. Hawth Shran, the great-grandson of the legendary Thy'lek Shran—he was the officer who had almost single-handedly forced Star Fleet Command to confront their mistakes in allowing the Leydon Coup and the early efforts against the Dominion. The leader who reorganized the Fleet during the War, and made certain that nothing stopped the Federation from victory.

Admiral Shran had been offered the office of the Chief of Star Fleet Operations, but he had refused; instead returning to his command over the Fleet based out of Andoria. Not one Vulcan, nor a Betazed, nor _any_ of the member races most likely to have qualms over Matt's actions were seated as members of his board! Josiah Parker had certainly stacked the deck!

Admiral Shran took a small hammer and tapped a silver bell on his table three times. "This Special Courts Martial Inquiry in the matter of the USS _Republic_, her Captain, Matthew Lawrence Dahlgren, and their actions in the Cauldron Nebula, is hereby convened. Be seated."

There was a rustle as the observers and witnesses took their seats.

The Andorian glared at Matt. "Captain Dahlgren, are you prepared to offer your testimony?"

Matt stood. "I am, Sir."

"And have you brought copies of your ship's logs as you were ordered?"

"I have provided the logs to the Master-at-Arms, Sir."

"Then take the stand, Captain. And let us begin this inquisition into the affair."

**********************************************************

Matt took a sip of water as he considered the latest question posed to him by Admiral Takiro Abe. He had been on the witness stand before the Board of Inquiry for nearly two hours, after which Chan, Jim Nelson, and Ambassador Sepak had all been grilled. The Board had broken for lunch, and then _all_ of _Republic_'s senior staff had taken the stand, and sensor logs and ship's logs had been thoroughly dissected, and the Board had once again broken for dinner. And then Matt had been recalled, to _clarify_ his answers to the probing inquiries into every aspect of the decisions that he had made in the Lorsham affair.

"Yes, Admiral," he finally replied. "If I had the opportunity and the situation was the same, I would, after intense reflection, have proceeded in exactly the same manner. The Lorsham had already used a biological weapon against Ambassador Sepak and his aides, against the Kraal as well. They attempted to infect not only myself, but several members of my crew—and we can presume that they had subverted the entire complement of the Imperial Klingon Vessel _Val_'_qis_ as well. Given the same circumstances, I would once again act in the same manner—to eliminate a grave threat not only to my ship and crew, but to the entire Federation; to the Alpha and Beta Quadrants."

Abe leaned back and scowled down at Matt from his elevated seat on the panel. "You would, once again, make an armed assault upon a race with whom the Federation has not declared war; a race that requested Federation assistance in the first place?"

"Yes, sir, I would, Admiral. That race had already committed acts of war upon the Federation through their actions."

"And you have no regrets—no remorse—over your actions?"

"Admiral, I regret that thirty-seven members of my crew lost their lives. I regret that I was forced to engage _Val_'_qis_ and with the help of USS _Phoenix_ destroy her, and I regret that _Republic_ was forced to kill a good number of Lorsham aboard their ships that attacked _Republic_. I am not remorseful for my actions, which I believe were justified in light of the threat posed by this biological weapon."

"And your authorization of this procedure used on Ambassador Sepak, Captain Dahlgren," the Denobulan commodore stated, "you took a major risk in authorizing a procedure in which so much could have gone wrong."

"Yes I did, Commodore Thal. The decision to authorize this procedure was one that I felt had to be attempted; the Ambassador was dying. My ship's surgeon—and the surgeon aboard the _Phoenix_—agreed that no conventional therapy could have stopped or slowed the deterioration of the Ambassador's organs. I made the command decision to attempt to save his life—I expressly did not authorize any such attempts to cure his aides, whose lives were not in danger."

The members of the board made notes on data-pads, but none asked another question. Admiral Hawth Shran twitched one of antennae. "Does the board have any additional questions for this witness?"

After a short pause, he nodded. "Very well. Captain Dahlgren, you are excused. The members of this Special Courts Martial Board of Inquiry will now retire to deliberate. Captain Dahlgren, you are subject to recall upon the conclusion of those deliberations. We are now in recess." He tapped the silver bell three times and the members stood, and then filed out into an adjourning room.

Matt stood as well, waiting for the flag officers to finish exiting, and then he gingerly stepped down from the witness box and limped over to his executive officer.

"Well, they asked everything except what size uniform I wear, Chan," he whispered.

"That information is already contained in your personnel file, Captain Dahlgren," Chan answered with a grin, "they had no need to ask it."

"Seriously," he whispered, "your testimony was precise and on-target. I doubt you will receive more than a slap-on-the-wrist. Especially since my testimony corroborated yours completely and faithfully. As did that of the Ambassador and the recorded statement of Captain Nelson, along with the sensor logs and the testimony of our officers."

"Well, except the small matter that I did _break_ the Prime Directive, Chan—justified or not, I did."

"Given the threat posed by the Lorsham, Captain Dahlgren, there was not much else you could do—and these men on the board are serving officers each with combat experience; they are not members of the Federation Council who have never in their lives commanded men and women in battle."

"True, but I still . . .," Matt's voice trailed off as the Master-at-Arms snapped to attention, the door to the deliberation room opening again.

"All rise!" he intoned, and the court began filing back into the room. Matt stood there and stared until Chan tugged on his arm and he at last took a seat. Three minutes. They had not been deliberating for more than three minutes!

Admiral Hawth Shran once again took his seat and he tapped the bell three times again. "Be seated, this Special Courts Martial Board of Inquiry is hereby reconvened. Captain Matthew Lawrence Dahlgren, step forward."

Matt did so as the witnesses and observers took their seats. He stood ramrod straight directly before the court.

"Captain Matthew Lawrence Dahlgren, this board has determined that your actions in the Cauldron Nebula were justified in light of the danger this biological weapon posed to the United Federation of Planets. We shall recommend to the President that no charges be preferred against you for violating the Prime Directive in this instance. Further, the Board recommends that the logs of USS _Republic_, USS _Phoenix_, and the recordings of these proceedings be sealed. The events leading up to your intervention in the internal workings of the Lorsham government and culture are hereby classified. Neither you, nor any member of your crew, are to discuss these events unless questioned under oath by a justly convened Board of Inquiry."

"For the official record," and here Shran's antennae twitched, "Star Fleet will publish that on Stardate 53750.7, USS _Republic_, under the command of Captain Dahlgren, responded to the distress call of Imperial Klingon Vessel _Val_'_qis_, which had been critically damaged as the result of a Force 9 Ion Storm in the Cauldron Nebula. While moving to assist _Val_'_qis_, _Republic_ suffered severe damage and was unable to prevent the loss of the Klingon vessel with all hands. USS _Phoenix_ subsequently arrived on scene to provide assistance to USS _Republic_."

"The board further recommends that the Federation Council approve a permanent blockade and quarantine of the Hak'ta-thor system until a cure for the Lorsham biological weapon has been found. Captain Dahlgren, you and your officers are free to return to your vessel. This court is now adjourned."

The Admiral tapped the silver bell three more times, and slowly the courtroom emptied.

****************************************************

"Captain?" the desktop terminal broadcast.

"Yes, Grace?" Matt answered setting down the stylus and rubbing his sore eyes.

"Admiral Parker is requesting a private secure channel to speak with you, Sir."

"Put him through."

Matt folded his reading glasses and turned the monitor to directly face him, just as the Josiah appeared on the screen. "Good morning, Admiral."

"Matt. We've got a problem—how soon can you get _Republic_ into warp?"

Matt jerked, and his jaw dropped. "You can't be serious, Sir! We just arrived at _McKinley_ yesterday! The station personnel haven't even finished _evaluating_ our damage, much less started repairs."

"Captain Dahlgren. At 1400 hours tomorrow, Ambassador Delena Mar will be introducing a new resolution in the Council—a second resolution demanding that _Republic_ be scrapped. And this time she's throwing the Star Fleet a bone: she's offering her full support behind restarting construction on a new _Luna_-class ship with which to replace your ship. Did you sleep with her sister, Matt, because that woman's got a real beef with you and your ship both?"

"No, nothing like that; but I did have to brief her once when I was pulling desk duty down there—one of her aides made a snide comment I didn't care for about how since peace has broken out Star Fleet is now obsolete and I cut him off at the knees. Didn't think she was one for holding grudges."

"Yeah, she is," Josiah responded, rubbing a hand over his thinning scalp. "Bottom line, Matt—_Republic_ has to be in warp, out of the solar system, and en route to her next assignment by 1300 hours tomorrow. That gives you thirty hours. What do you need?"

Matt frowned as he pulled up the ship's schematics on a separate hand-held data pad, shaking his head. "We might—_might_—get the hull patched and sealed in that time, but only if _McKinley_ puts three or four work crews on us. I don't see how we're going to get the internal damage repaired in time." Matt looked directly at his old friend. "And I haven't had a single replacement report on board ship."

"They are beaming aboard in twenty-two minutes, Captain. What else?"

Matt thought for several seconds. "I need to borrow eighty or ninety engineers from McKinley, Spacedock, Utopia Planitia, or Star Fleet Headquarters, hell, even the Academy."

"_Borrow_?"

"Long term loan, actually," Matt said with a smile. "I've got 118 empty passenger quarters, Admiral; those engineers will let me fix my damage while underway. Oh, and I'll need an industrial replicator programmed for all of our various parts—along with the raw materials for replication."

Josiah stared at Matt for several moments, and then he took out a bottle of antacid and took a long slug. "I swear, Matt, it'd be simpler to let her scrap the ship—you still haven't given back that officer and two crewmen you shanghaied from Jupiter Station!"

"Such a harsh word, shanghaied, Admiral. They were transferred aboard this ship under signed orders—signed by you—reassigning them to me."

The CSO waved that off, and finally he nodded. "Okay—but I want _these_ engineers back as soon as they fix your ship, Matt!"

"Agreed. You'll get the ball rolling with _McKinley_?"

"Zak Jurood is meeting with Commodore Sampson at this very moment."

"In that case, I think I have some work to do."

"That you do Captain."

"Where are you sending us, by the way?" Matt quickly asked before Josiah could sever the transmission.

Josiah smiled. "I still hunting for something far enough away, and serious enough to warrant sending you back out on such short notice—but I'll find something. Thirty hours, Matt—and the clock is ticking."

The screen blanked, and Matt sighed. He pressed the comm stud on his desk.

"_Yes, sir_?" Grace Biddle answered promptly. "Miss Biddle, assemble the senior officers in the briefing room and I need to see Mister Shrak immediately."

"_Yes, sir_," she replied curtly. "_I've also got a request from McKinley to send another five engineering teams aboard, sir_."

"Beam 'em over and expect more real soon. Now get cracking, Grace—we don't have time to waste today."

"_Aye, aye, Sir_," she answered as the comm cut out.

Oh boy, Matt thought. Here we go again.

Matt grimaced as the Doctor probed the wound on his leg none too gently. Quincy kept shaking his head as he relied on his hands and eyes to judge the state of the wound instead of a medical scanner.

"If the Jem'Hadar used normal weapons, this leg would be fully healed by now. But _no_, they use that damn polaron based energy that just borders on biogentic levels of insanity. It's not enough that they almost severed your leg with that damned fire axe on _Kearsage_, but then they had to exposure the wounded tissue to the polaron radiation! And the anti-radiation treatments further retarded your natural tissue's ability to respond to conventional treatments! I've half a mind to saw the damn thing off and give you a prosthetic, Matt."

"Not going to happen, Quincy," Matt grunted as the surgeon pressed his fingers deep into the ragged red scar tissue.

He snorted. "Having an artificial leg won't turn you into a Borg, Matt! And with the advances in technology you won't even notice after a few weeks."

"I'm keeping my leg, Doctor," Matt growled.

"Fine. Be stubborn," Quincy said as he took out a hypo and jabbed it directly into the wound, causing Matt to flinch again.

"You enjoy that, don't you? The Marquis de Sade had nothing on you for sadism, right?"

"Now, why would I ever enjoy inflicting pain and suffering upon a patient who doesn't follow my directions for getting himself well? Your using the weights again, aren't you?"

"It doesn't hurt as bad since you switched me to the new drug, Quincy."

The surgeon shook his head and sighed. "Matt, a pain-killer is not a cure. It only suppresses the pain—you are still doing damage to the muscle."

"I've got to do my job," Matt said, and then he swayed. "The room is spinning; wha-what did . . . you . . .?" The captain's voice trailed off as he collapsed unconscious unto the couch.

"Yeah. So do I, Captain, Sir," Quincy answered before he tapped his comm badge. "Doctor Talbot to Commander Shrak."

"_This is Shrak_."

"Commander, I've just put the Captain asleep—and he is going to _stay_ asleep for the next twelve hours come hell, high water, or the Borg. Can you intercept everything and keep this ship running in his absence?"

"_I think I can arrange that, Doctor_."

"Good—oh, and I need two rating to haul some stuff from the Captain's quarters to the medical storage locker."

"_They will be there directly, Doctor Talbot_."

Quincy nodded as he reached down patted Matt on the shoulder. "If you won't stop trying to exercise that leg on your own, I'll hide the damn weights from you. And they can help me haul your ass to bed, Captain."

The doctor got up, walked over to Matt's liquor cabinet, and poured himself a stiff shot of Scotch. He raised the crystal to Matt in a salute. "Good night, sweet prince," he said and then he took a sip. "Ah. I _thought_ you were holding back on the good stuff."

*********************************************************

"_Bridge to Captain Dahlgren_," Chan's comm badge chirped. He shifted in his seat in the far more spartan Executive Office immediately aft of the main bridge and closed his monitor screen.

"Commander Shrak," he said tapping his comm unit.

"_Sir_?" Grace Biddle's puzzled voice answered. "_I was trying to reach the Captain_."

"The Captain is getting some much needed rest, Miss Biddle. What is the emergency?"

"_I have a Lieutenant Vasa on the bridge, Sir. He's one of the engineers from the McKinley. And he wants to set up some equipment in a space that I felt I needed the Captain's permission for_."

Chan frowned. "Is Miss Tsien on the bridge, Miss Biddle?"

"_Yes, Sir_."

"Turn the conn over to her and escort the Lieutenant to the Executive Office."

Just a few moments later, the door chimed. "Come."

The ship's Operations Officer entered, trailed by a burly blond-haired man, who was nodded appreciatively. "Ja, I had forgotten that these old _Korolev_'s still had a day cabin for the Executive Officer—they don't do that anymore on modern ships. Pity."

"I am Commander Shrak, Lieutenant—what compartment do you need access to?"

The engineer shook his head. "Gustaf Vasa, Commander," he said, clicking his heels together and tilting his head slightly. "I need to install an industrial replicator sent by Star Fleet Command."

"I am aware that they are sending it, Lieutenant. Cargo bay two has been design-. . ."

"Nej—I mean no, Commander Shrak, pardon the interruption," the engineer cut in, even as Chan's antennae twitched. "The power conduits are completely inappropriate in that location; the equipment must be moved."

Chan leaned back, twirling his stylus in one hand. "Commander Malik, our chief engineer, assures me that the equipment can be installed there."

"He is mistaken. Normal replicators? Ja. Ordnance replicators? Ja. Medical replicators. Ja. Industrial replicators? Nej. The conduits cannot handle the power drain for more than brief periods."

"And where, then would you suggest this installing this incredibly bulky piece of equipment, Mister Vasa? We are a working starship—not a station."

"Ja, that is the problem. Computer, schematic USS _Republic_ on screen," he barked and a wire diagram of the ship appeared on a wall mounted screen. Only the cargo holds are large enough—but they lack the proper power feeds. We could run new feeds, but these would be temporary and lack the proper shielding in the event of damage, like a Klingon-flavored ion storm, eh?" He chuckled.

"But, there are two compartments both large enough in volume and with the proper power connections," the engineer continued, zooming in first on Deck 6 and then Deck 10. "Either would be appropriate for the installation. I just need to know which you prefer. Deck 10 is closer to the cargo bays and is somewhat easier to maneuver large pieces of equipment through, but either of these compartments will work."

Chan's antennae were now quivering. "You want to convert Holodeck 2 into your industrial replicator room?"

"Ja. Plenty of power available; we will remove the holo-projectors and it has ample volume. Even enough space to add a cargo transporter to beam in raw materials as needed from the cargo holds."

"Miss Biddle," Chan said as he looked up. "I think I know what the Captain would say in this circumstance: we are a Star Fleet vessel and not a luxury liner. Surely the crew can get by with a single Holodeck. Cancel all scheduled activities on Holodeck 2 and inform the crew that installation is no longer available for their recreation time. Mister Vasa, you have authorization to put your replicator there."

"Thank you, Commander. A question, if I may ask?"

"Go ahead."

"Could this ship use a replicator specialist, Commander? I would like to transfer aboard if possible—running replicators on a station is so boring. I do not think this ship will be _boring_. Sir."

Chan's antennae twitched again, and the corners of his mouth lifted slightly. "I'll consider it, Lieutenant, _after_ you've lost twenty kilos. Now, I've got work to do and so do both of you—the clock is ticking, people. Dismissed."

Both the junior officers stood up straight and then filed out of the office, leaving Chan shaking his head as he pulled up the next requisition form in his inbox.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

"_Commander Shrak, report to the Captain's ready room. Commander Shrak, report to the Captain's ready room._"

Chan looked up at the sudden announcement over the ship's speakers and he saved the mountain of Star Fleet paperwork he was slowly grinding through. The cover story that Command had devised was playing havoc with getting torpedo reloads onboard—since all he could put in the requisition blanks that demanded to know why the torpedoes had been expended was LOST DUE TO DAMAGE FROM ION STORM. Three times, the requisition had been sent back, electronically stamped DENIED.

The last requisition came with a curt note all but accusing the Andorian of smuggling torpedoes away to be sold on the black market! And said in no uncertain terms, that there was no reason an _ion storm_ warranted the expenditure of nearly three dozen Mk. 60s.

Chan walked through the bridge, and he took in the quiet efficiency of the crew with a nod of satisfaction. They had come together, and while there were still rough edges among them, they were acting and conducting themselves like real Star Fleet officers and crew should. He continued through the port-side door and into the short corridor that led to Turbolift 2 and the door to Captain Dahlgren's ready room.

He stopped before the door, standing straight and pulling his uniform to wipe away any creases before he pressed the stud.

"_Come_," the intercom broadcast.

Chan walked into the ready room—the day cabin that served Captain Dahlgren as his office. It was twice the size of his own Executive Office, and included not only a desk and two guest chairs, but a comfortable couch, several shelves covered with books and items the Captain had collected over the years, and three transparent aluminum portals through which the executive officer could see the frantic EVA activity of _McKinley_ Station.

"You wanted to see me, Captain Dahlgren?" Chan asked.

"I will presume that you are well aware that our surgeon drugged me, since no one came to wake me for my shift—the shift that you covered."

"I was."

"And you approve?"

"Begging your pardon, Captain Dahlgren, Sir, but you needed the rest. The ship is getting ready for space, the crew are working hard—but none of that will matter if you are not as ready as she is when the time comes to slip away from our berth."

Matt grunted, and then gestured to one of the seats. He began to open his mouth, but then the doors hissed open and Yeoman Sinclair walked in with a covered serving tray, which she carried across to the desk.

Matt sat back and frowned as the middle-aged woman set down the tray, a napkin, and a set of silver utensils, and then she whisked the cover off to reveal a china plate covered with hash-brown potatoes, scrambled eggs, steaming grits with butter melting across the top, strips of crisp bacon, sausage links, and two slices of hot buttered toast with a small open jar of red plum jam.

"Nancy, I don't have time for breakfast . . ." Matt began before the yeoman interrupted him.

"Make time, Sir. Chef Watanabe will be rather upset that his real—not replicated—meal has gone uneaten, Sir. Would the Captain prefer juice or milk, this morning?"

Matt smiled, and his stomach rumbled as he inhaled the rich steam rising from the plate. "Milk, and . . ."

"Milk, 500ml, chilled," the yeoman instructed and she removed the glass that suddenly materialized within the replicator unit. "Iced tea, southern style, sweetened, no citrus, 750ml." Taking the second glass as well, Nancy Sinclair placed both on the right side of the platter.

"Will the Captain require anything else this morning?" she asked.

"No," Matt said as he placed the napkin in his lap. "That will be all, Nancy."

"Aye, aye, Sir; I'll be back for the plate in half an hour. And I will check the replicator disposal log to see if you actually ate it, Sir."

Where upon she turned on her heel and exited the ready room.

"The entire bloody crew wants to treat me with kid gloves, Chan," Matt mumbled as he scooped up a forkful of eggs and potatoes and took a bite. He patted his lips with a second napkin.

"Repair status?"

"On schedule," the Andorian answered with his antennae twitching. "Commander Malik believes that the last hull plate will in place and molecularly welded by 1200 hours, after which we can repressurize the compartments opened in the breach. Our new industrial replicator has been installed in Holodeck 2, and should be operational within the next twenty-four hours."

"Holodeck 2?"

"The power supply there meets the needs of the unit better than the cargo bay. Or so Lieutenant Vasa assures me."

"No great loss; have you . . ."

"Captain, please. All scheduled activities have been moved to Holodeck 1 and rotation assignments have been posted. I've also scheduled a close-quarters combat drill for security at 1900 hours tomorrow."

Matt sprinkled some pepper across the steaming eggs, and then he began to mix them into his buttered grits. "Let's plan on a fire drill for tomorrow afternoon—we've got a lot of new people onboard and plenty of exposed conduits and circuits. Get a feel at least for how they respond."

"I'll schedule it, Captain Dahlgren," he said as Matt lifted a strip of bacon and bit off a piece.

"There is the slight matter of our torpedo reloads, however."

"Oh?"

"_McKinley_'s ordnance section doesn't seem to want to believe that we expended thirty-four torpedoes in an ion storm. He denied our request for reloads."

"I'll speak with Commodore Sampson—I have a video conference with him in forty minutes anyway. But we'll get those torps, Chan."

"Indeed, Captain Dahlgren. I was quite ready to send Senior Chief Callaghan and some torpedomen over to obtain them."

"Chan," Matt said as he shook his head with a grin. "That is not how Star Fleet officers are supposed to operate. I'll speak with Sampson—and Sampson will deal with that dunderhead. But have our torpedo crew stand by to check the reloads before they go into the magazines—he might try to pawn off damaged goods on us."

"Of course—and if he does?"

"If he does, then inform the Senior Chief and grant him forty-five minutes of station leave," Matt answered with a humorless smile as he lifted one of the sausage links. "Anything else I need to know from my hibernation?"

"No, sir."

"Alright, Chan. We've got four hours to finish as much as we can, and then we are out of here. So crack the whip."

"Aye, aye, Sir," Chan answered as he rose, Matt spreading jam across one of the slices of toast as he turned to leave.

"And Chan?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"Thanks for keeping things running smooth in my absence."

The antennae twitched again. "Indeed. I didn't even need to threaten a flogging—you've scared the crew into jumping to obey my instructions. You pink-skin tyrant, you."

Matt chuckled. "Miss Tsien has the conn?"

"Yes, sir, she does."

"Fine, I'll be out there after my talk with Commodore Sampson. Let's get the old girl ready for space, Chan."

"Ready or not, we will leave the station on schedule—you have my word, Sir."

"Of that, Commander Shrak, I have not the least doubt."

Chan half bowed as Matt took a deep sip of the cold milk and then another hefty bite of potatoes and eggs. And then the doors slid closed behind him.

**********************************************************

Chan stepped out of the turbolift onto Deck 8 and he briskly strode down two corridors before the reaching the Logistics and Supply Office. He walked into the small and cramped compartment and then stopped in his tracks. Rather than the utilitarian décor he had expected, the LSO had dimmed lights, the bulkheads adorned in Tellarite tapestries, with carved vases adorning wooden cabinets. He could hear the gruff snoring and grunting from deep within the chest of Pok Khar'tess, the Lieutenant in charge of this vital department.

The Tellarite sat in his chair, his feet propped up on the desk, and the chair leaning back against the corner, braced by two bulkheads. Asleep. He was _asleep_.

The two ratings working at their consoles snapped to their feet as the Andorian had stormed in, but Pok still slept.

"Lieutenant," Chan said. "LIEUTENANT!" he bellowed a second time. Causing the Logistics officer's eyes to snap open and forcing him to flail to his arms to regain his balance, before sitting up.

"Ah," he squinted, taking in his surroundings. "Ah, Commander Shrak. Welcome to Supply? Do you need additional refrigeration units attached to your environmental system controls?"

"Lieutenant Pok, _you_ called _me_ and requested a meeting."

"Ah. Ah, yes, I did, didn't I," the Tellarite chuckled. "It takes a while for the brain to wake up from a deep REM sleep—didn't they tell you in the Academy that waking a sleeping Tellarite is not a wise thing, Commander?"

"Sleeping on duty on this ship, Lieutenant Pok, is the _definition_ not a wise thing."

"On duty, off duty, someone always needs something from Supply, Commander. I all but live in my office these days—haven't eaten a full meal in days, just snacks. I shall waste away before long!" he chuckled as he slapped his round belly.

"But now I remember why I asked you to pay us a visit. Come, come!" Pok said as he walked out of the office—and then stopped, looking back through the door at the ratings. "And those requisitions had best be complete when I return or I'll have you doing calisthenics with Beck's Marines!"

The Tellarite waddled down the corridor to Cargo Bay Three, where he entered a complex code into the door access, and it whistled open. "Here we are, Commander!" he said as he entered, waving a hand over the cavernous hall filled with crates full of supplies and spare parts.

"What am I supposed to be looking at, Lieutenant?" the Andorian asked, his antennae retracted and his face tight.

The Tellarite threw up both hands and shook his head, walked over to the stack of machinery covered with a tarp and ripped away the concealing cover. To unveil photon torpedo casings stacked upon two pallets.

"Voila!'

Chan froze. He stared at the photon torpedoes, and then he turned his gaze on the Tellarite and then he went back to staring at the torpedoes. "How did . . ."

"You don't want to know, Commander. _Really_. But trust me, _Endeavor_ doesn't even know they are missing from her magazines. I did leave an . . . anonymous note so that they could replace them before that ship leaves dry-dock. It's on a timer in their main computer—to be opened after we are well away from Sol," he finished with a wheezing chuckle. "I know Lt. Commander Adrian of the station—we were in the same class at the Academy. He won't give you the torpedoes _Republic_ needs—not without a direct order from Star Fleet Command! Hah! There are many ways to skin the _vort_, though!"

The Tellarite squinted again at the executive officer. "Unless you want me to give them back?"

"No. No, Lieutenant Pok, I think we'll go ahead and keep them," Chan slowly said as he tapped his comm badge. "Commander Shrak to Torpedo Control—we've received a shipment of Mk. 60s in Cargo Three. Set a work crew down to inspect them before storing them in the magazines."

"_Aye, aye, sir_," came the quick answer.

"And Pok?"

"Ah, yes, Sir?"

"I think you and I are going to have a little talk about what else you've managed to acquire off the books."

Pok's face fell and he began to wave his furry hands, stuttering at the back of the Andorian who was walking out of the cargo bay.

"A discussion and perhaps even a full audit," Shrak's voice trailed off and the Tellarite quickly waddled after him.

"A full _audit_?!" the Tellarite wailed, wringing his hands.

Chan stopped and turned around. "Which will only be necessary if you are not completely truthful with me, Mister Pok. Now, what else have you managed to acquire?"

"A few odds, a few ends," sputtered the Tellarite. "I have a manifest in my office, of course."

Five minutes later, Shrak's eyes grew wide as he stared at the monitor screen. "Pok, you didn't . . . ?"

The Tellarite beam a smile. "I learned in the Cauldron, Commander, there is no such thing as too much firepower when fighting a Klingon battle cruiser. _McKinley_ shouldn't miss them for at least a day; by which time we'll be well away from here. Besides, Adrian is a stuffy fussy stick-in-the-mud, even by human standards; I think they call him a _prick_."

"You do realize our tubes are not rated to handle _quantum torpedoes_, Mister Pok?"

"Commander, I didn't ste-. . .; ah, I mean _acquire_ the entire torpedoes! I only took a dozen _warheads_. Surely our engineers can make them fit in a Mk. 60 case; even if we lose a bit of range the bigger bang is worth it. Yes?"

"Oh, yes," mumbled Chan, shaking his head.

Matt limped onto the bridge and crossed the deck to his command chair, as Chan stood and stepped aside.

"Captain Dahlgren," he said softly, "Mister Malik reports that all breaches have been sealed, the remaining repairs will be undertaken en route. All stations are manned, and _Republic_ is ready to get under way."

Matt nodded, and then scowled at Chan. He leaned close and whispered to his executive officer. "I've spoken with Captain Garvick aboard the _Endeavor_, Chan. Would you believe that she is missing thirty-four photon torpedoes from her magazine storage? Which just so happens to be _precisely_ the number that we needed to top off our own magazines?"

"Just wait until you Commodore Sampson calls and wants to know why a dozen quantum warheads walked away from his own ordnance storage, Sir."

Matt jerked. "Quantums? _Quantums_? Our tubes can't shoot quantums!" His voice raised unexpectedly, and several of the officers and crew turned their heads towards the human and Andorian. Matt sighed.

Chan's antennae just twitched. "Mister Malik believes that we can adapt the Mk. 70-Q warheads to fit inside our Mk. 60 casings—we'll lose about twenty percent of the fuel storage and the tertiary guidance systems; each torpedo will have to be refit by hand, but he assures me that it is possible. And a dozen quantum torpedoes would greatly enhance our firepower."

"And how, pray tell, are you scoundrels planning on _priming_ the quantum torpedoes, Mister Shrak? The launchers are not designed for the influx of energy it takes to arm those warheads?"

"The main deflector plasma power conduit runs just below the forward launchers; Mister Malik believes that he can install a new bypass that will provide the needed power in a few days—especially with the new replicator and the horde of engineers we have onboard. Tubes 5 and 6 will be unable to loaded or arm them, but our forward tubes should be adequate for the task." Chan's antennae twitched. "Of course, we could just transport the warheads back to _McKinley_ if you want to go through proper channels."

"Not on your life, Mister Shrak. I'm certain this crew _stole_ them fair and square," Matt answered with a smile. "Assume your station for departure."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

Matt sat, and he activated the ship-wide intercom.

"This is the Captain. To those of you who have recently joined the crew and complement of USS _Republic_, I welcome you aboard ship. As you are probably already aware, our vessel, this _proud_ vessel, has a cloud hanging over her name. She bears a reputation that makes our fellow spacers in Star Fleet shake their heads and make disparaging remarks. They rendered insults that in truth this crew does not deserve. You are asking yourselves what have I done to warrant this?"

"Instead, you should be asking what am _I_ going to do to restore _Republic_ her good name? What actions will _I_ take to make this ship the finest in the Fleet?"

"Gentlemen, ladies; reputations can lie. And those men and women who were with me in the Cauldron will tell you that. Comrades! We have had our leave cut short—we will be sailing once again into depths of space, with repair parties still working on restoring this ship. We see the scorn in the eyes of our brother and sister officers of the Fleet; we see the disdain that the Council holds our ship in."

"_They_ do not know what you accomplished so recently; _they_ do not know how _Republic_ kicked the ass of a modern Klingon battle-cruiser; excuse me, a Force 9 _ion storm_!"

Chuckles arose across the bridge.

"They do not know, comrades, but it does not matter. Because _we know_. And the rumor mill run amuck is ensuring that even now, though the records are sealed, people are becoming aware of what this ship and her crew have accomplished. We have shed blood together and shed tears together; we have lost members of our family who gave to their lives to protect the citizens of the Federation and the Kraal people from tyranny. It is up to you to show the universe that their lives were _not_ given in vain!"

"Be proud of who and what you are! Crew and officers of the USS _Republic_! For today, we sail once more, our destination the Cygnus Sector, where we will join Admiral Hall on the frontiers of the Federation! Our mission to explore the unknown worlds that lay beyond our acknowledged borders, to seek out new cultures and civilizations, to boldly go where no one has gone before! Today we start a new era for USS _Republic_! Today, we _will_ be that shining beacon that lights the path into the future!"

"Long ago, on Earth, many years before space-flight was little more than a dream of men often considered mad, mere authors weaving fictional tales of fantasy. Long ago, in that world, there was a great conflict between two differing ideologies, one that would have enshrined the enslavement of our fellow man and the other representing the ideals that we as a Federation carry forward to this day."

"And from that conflict, there arose a song, ladies and gentlemen. Comrades, that song is _our song_."

Matt pressed another stud on the arm of his chair and over the ship's loudspeakers, a robust baritone voice began to sing.

"_Mine eyes have the seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; he hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword; His Truth is marching on._"

"_Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah!_"

Matt spoke up, even as the song continued to play throughout the ship. "This is _our_ anthem, this is _our_ legacy. This is the Battle Hymn of our own _Republic_! And if you will not live up to the promise of this ship, then so help me God I'll kick your ass so fast and hard that you will achieve warp speed without a starship!"

More chuckles erupted as the song reverberated across the bulkheads and decks of the ship.

"Miss Montoya! Ahead dead slow, until we clear the berth, and then set course for the Cygnus Sector—Warp Seven."

"Aye, aye, Sir!" she barked in answer.

Chan held one hand to his ear-piece. "Captain, Commodore Sampson is hailing us."

"On speaker," said Matt.

"Shall I discontinue the music, Captain Dahlgren?"

"No. Let them sing out, Mister Shrak."

The Andorian's antennae twitched, but he only said, "On screen."

The station commander's eyes grew wide as he heard the song thundering over the intercom. "Matt, we've got a problem."

"Commodore. If you are referring to the missing quantum warheads, there is no problem. Sign them out to _Republic_—they are already in our magazines."

The angry looking ordnance officer standing beside the Commodore slammed down his fist. "I'll file every charge against you I can, you bloody thief! How dare you . . ."

"LIEUTENANT COMMNANDER!" barked Matt as he stood. "Speak to me in that insubordinate tone of voice again, and I will have you broken, Sir. I can—and _will_—transfer your ass aboard this ship and assign you every shit detail I have. Commodore, check with Admiral Parker and you will find we are authorized for a full magazine load—an authorization that this _p'tahk_ ignored. We had to scrounge torpedoes from the _Endeavor_, although with the permission of Captain Garvick." Permission attained after we received the torpedoes, but permission nonetheless, Matt thought.

"_He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; he is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat!"_

Sampson frowned. "God speed, Captain Dahlgren; I'll have the paperwork cleared up retroactively—_don't_ do this again at my station. Is that understood, Captain?"

"Crystal, Sir."

"We have cleared the berth, Sir," Isabella called out from the helm.

"Then bring us about, and take into Warp, Miss Montoya," Matt said as he sat once more.

_Republic_ leaped forward as shot away from Earth, even as the voices continued to crescendo. "_Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! His truth is marching on!_"


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

"Captain log, Stardate 53752.8, USS _Republic_. We have been underway now for twenty days en route to the Cygnus Sector. Ship's morale continues to be high, although there have been several . . . _confrontations_ between my regular crew and the engineers we temporarily have aboard ship. However, between the stern efforts of Commander Shrak, Commander Malik, and Commander Phillips (the senior officer of the Star Fleet Corps of Engineers personnel), I believe that we have managed to avert frustrations and discomfort from exploding into violence."

"Our guests are not used to the discipline that Chan and I have managed to instill among the crew of _Republic_; in fact, many have protested to Commander Philips over the lack of access to Holodeck 1, as well as the limited nature of recreational programs that I will allow for their use. Sean Philips, however, understands that this is _my_ ship—and he has backed my decisions to the hilt, despite his own private misgivings over the lack of options the crew has available for their downtime."

Matt chuckled. "With the access to the library computer network, and its archival databanks of books, music, drama, comedy, sports, and a nearly unimaginable broad selection of subjects, I doubt that anyone on this ship—on _any_ Star Fleet ship—can be seriously disconcerted by not having their own custom Holodeck fantasies. Complaints against this policy have gradually slowed, however, as the SCE personnel have come to realize that I simply will not give in to their _whining_. Assigning them to morning calisthenics with the Marine's only hastened their acceptance of this reality."

"I am concerned however about the sheer enthusiasm that my crew has shown concerning the SCE personnel and their critical skills in restoring ships and upgrading equipment." Matt paused and he took a sip of his Scotch, rubbing his leg, and he shook his head. "So far, I've had seventy-nine separate memos sent by junior officers suggesting alterations to the ship. These have ranged from the mildly inventive to ideas that make me wonder if perhaps the Academy training program is not giving enough emphasis on _practical_ engineering. Case in point, Ensign Park suggested that we replicate and install no less than sixty-six pulse phaser turrets on the primary and engineering hulls; completely ignoring the power requirements, conduit rerouting, and hull cutting that would have to go into such an endeavor. Not to mention that _Republic_ would have to install another sixteen fire directors, targeting and tracking arrays, and find the space for an additional thirty-three phaser techs! Or that such a large number of pulse phasers would quickly drain every joule of energy from the ship's reactors!"

"Another suggestion made was the installation of a collimated phaser strip along the edge of the forward saucer, covering a 170-degree arc of fire from port-to-starboard. Although not a bad suggestion on its face, Ensign Roberts failed to consider the drain on ship-wide power reserves, the need to lay nearly two kilometers of 15cm plasma power conduits through existing internal compartments, and that his proposed heavy phaser strip—using emitters normally reserved for _planetary_ defense batteries!—would require the removal of the forward airlock and forty-four personnel quarters." Matt shook his head and chuckled. "Apparently he was impressed by the disruptor cannons that _Val'qis_ carried in her prow."

"A member of our crew who must be a romantic at heart insisted that we could Cargo Five and Six into two more shuttlecraft hangers, doubling our capacity. He then suggested, in his humble opinion, that we _acquire_ two dozen Type 11 shuttle-_fighters_ and transform _Republic_ into a thru-deck cruiser-carrier. Of course, the Type 11 is a wonderful piece of technology, ideally suited for orbital defense. But today is not 1942, and the idea of committing waves of lightly defended shuttlecraft against starships is laughable. During the Dominion War, both Star Fleet and the Klingon Empire routinely destroyed scores of Jem'Hadar fighters in every attack. No, I cannot in good conscience endorse such an idea so callous of casualties."

"I did not tear my Ensigns a raw strip from their hides, however. No, I bit my tongue, and simply forwarded the memos to the various department heads and Commander Shrak—who have now, I am quite certain—discussed _precisely_ what the chain of command means, and to whom such ideas should be submitted aboard this ship."

"However, there was _one_ idea which is both practical and eminently sensible. Ensign Hollis Trevane suggested that since we do have an industrial replicator and SCE personnel skilled in EVA, perhaps we can manufacture some ablative armor panels to reinforce critical areas of the ship's hull. His suggestion has merit and I intend to carry it out at our first available opportunity. The added mass is negligible against _Republic_s current tonnage, and the increase in protection for the ship and crew at no cost in power consumption is an excellent proposal. Commander Philips believes that his engineers can, if assisted by our crew, complete the installation of ablative armor plating over 84% of the ship's external surface in less than two days at sub-light."

"The production of so much plating, however, has dramatically eaten into our onboard supplies intended for the industrial replicator. We should have enough to armor vital sections of the exterior of the ship with just enough left over to reinforce the interior bulkheads surrounding the anti-matter containment pods. If we can produce a few more tons, I also plan on reinforcing the internal bulkheads around the warp core."

"In order to accomplish the installation of the exterior armor plating, I am planning on a 96-hour layover at the New Columbia colony tomorrow. Once the SCE engineers have completed this task, I will inform Star Fleet Command to send a transport for them—as all of our internal repairs will be complete by that time as well. I have received a handful of requests for permanent assignment aboard _Republic_, some of which I am considering approving. Commander Philips has signed off on any transfers from his command to this ship; although I am not certain Admiral Parker would. Thankfully, he is far away on Earth."

"If possible, I intend to allow the crew to get a few hours of liberty at New Columbia. Our time at Earth was too brief to allow them to visit their families, or go carousing in the case of our young Ensigns. I have already spoken with Commander Shrak, asking him to have a word with those on their first tour of duty. But that is for after the last of the repairs have been finished."

Matt yawned. "Computer, save log."

"_Log saved_."

"Play recording Cassandra Dahlgren 023, Live from Notre Dame."

"_File_ _loaded_, _playback_ _commencing_."

Matt leaned back in his chair, taking another sip of the smooth whiskey as he listened to the recording of his daughter and her choral group performing at the ancient cathedral.

***********************************************

"We are approaching New Columbia, Sir," Isabella called out from the helm.

Matt finished his update of the ship's log and he shifted in his chair. "Very well, Miss Montoya. Drop to sub-light and assume standard orbit."

"Aye, aye, Sir," she replied and the stars streaking by on the view screen suddenly slowed.

"There is a starship in orbit of the colony, Captain," the tactical officer called out suddenly. "Orion _Clipper_-class, transponder says she is the SS _White Cloud_." Pavel looked up from his station with a grin. "I think we've surprised them, Sir—her warp drive is off-line and her shields are down."

"Well, well, well," mused Matt. "Miss Montoya, put us into orbit directly aft of that ship; Miss Biddle, stand by forward tractor in case they decide to run. Mister Chan, hail them and inform the master to stand by for a customs inspection."

"With pleasure, Captain Dahlgren," the Andorian replied.

"On viewer, Miss Biddle; magnify."

The main view screen zoomed in on the Orion vessel coasting along in standard orbit. The _Clipper_-class ships were officially designated by the Orion Syndicate as fast cargo/courier vessels—but _Starfleet_ considered them blockade runners, smugglers, and (on occasion) pirates. Standing orders for the Fleet was to conduct inspections of any _Clipper_ in Federation space for illegal goods; more than one such inspection had revealed the transport of slaves. The problem with enforcing that decree was a rather simple one: like all Orion designed vessels, the _Clipper_s were fast ships. Faster, in fact, than all but the most modern Star Fleet vessels, much less an older ship like _Republic_. Oh, they paid for that speed in having very lightly built unreinforced hulls, low-powered shields, and a limited array of older and weaker weaponry, but all too often they were simply able to outrun Star Fleet ships rather than submit to being boarded.

But every now and then, on rare occasion, a Federation vessel managed to catch them unawares—much like now. It was a task that the Blue Fleet in particular, with the Andorian's hatred of pirates and slavers, excelled at. And if that ship was smuggling illegal items, well, then; under Federation law the ship could be impounded by Star Fleet to be either scrapped or sold at auction. Taking a _Clipper_-class as a prize—_intact_—was a definite feather in the cap of any starship, and her Captain.

Matt pressed a comm stud on his chair. "Security, bridge."

"_Go ahead, Bridge_," came the voice of Lieutenant Beck.

"Prepare a customs inspection party—we've got an Orion vessel in orbit, Mister Beck. Commander Shrak will assign the inspection officers, but I want your Marines to provide security for the detail."

"_Aye, aye, sir_," the Lieutenant answered.

"Captain, we are in tractor range," Miss Biddle called out.

"Chan, any response?"

"None."

Matt frowned. "Are their sensors active, Miss Tsien?"

"Yes, sir. Their proximity alarms should be going off, even if they don't have a sensor watch manned."

"Put them in a tractor lock, Miss Biddle; perhaps that will wake them up."

"Aye, aye, Si . . ." she began, but was then interrupted by a shout from Amanda's science station. "Captain! My sensors are showing no life forms aboard that vessel."

Matt rotated his chair and stared at the young science officer. "Verify."

"Confirmed, Sir."

Chan ran his hands over his own board, and he shook his head. "Confirmed. No signs of life aboard that vessel, Captain Dahlgren."

"Does she have internal power and life support?"

"Affirmative. Her warp core is shut down; her impulse engines are in standby mode; thrusters are at station-keeping. And her guns are cold; deflectors and shields off-line."

"Hail the colony, Mister Shrak," Matt said, as a chill ran down his spine.

"No response, Captain," the Andorian replied after a moment. "No response on normal or emergency channels."

"Curiouser and curiouser," Matt whispered. "Yellow alert, Mister Shrak."

"Setting Yellow Alert throughout the ship—our shields are now raised, Captain Dahlgren."

"Amanda, scan the colony."

"Aye, aye, Sir," she replied as she bent over her console. "Defense shields are lowered, planetary defense phasers off-line; I am detecting multiple power sources consistent with the colonies generators." And then she jerked upright. "Captain," she gasped, "this can't be right!"

"Miss Tsien?"

"I am detecting _none_ of the colonists on the surface. _Not one_. There are supposed to be _twelve thousand_ people down there, and I'm not detecting a single one of them!"

The bridge grew quiet. Matt turned back around to face Chan. "Mister Shrak, any signs of combat—either in the colony or aboard that ship?"

"None. And I confirm the sensor readings, Captain Dahlgren. I am detecting the native animal and plant life, but none of the colonists."

Matt leaned back and he tapped his fingers on the arm of his command chair. "Mister Shrak, prepare a landing party—outfit them with EVA suits. I want full hazardous environment precautions, just in case there is some contamination of that ship or the colony. And make certain they are armed, Mister Shrak. Miss Tsien, you are relieved; I want a full science and medical team standing by to beam down once Mister Shrak and the Marines have secured the beam-down site."

"Aye, aye, Sir. Permission to leave the bridge?" Chan asked, as Amanda stood.

"Granted. Find me some answers, Chan."

"Mister Roshenko," Matt continued, turning in his chair to face the tactical officer. "I want you to deploy twenty-four probes in an expanding spherical shell towards the Oort Cloud. Full active sensor pallets with real-time telemetry back to the ship. Tie the probes into the science labs for analysis. In addition, I want a complete sensor sweep of the planet—maximum resolution. Let's see if there is anyone on the surface, or anything in system."

"Aye, aye, Sir. That will cut our supply of probes by half, Captain."

"I am aware of that, Mister Roshenko. The added sensor reach is well worth the expenditure."

"Aye, aye, Sir. It'll take twenty minutes to prep that number and launch."

"Understood. Miss Biddle?" he said as he rotated his chair back forward.

Grace turned and looked at the Captain. "Sir?"

"Miss Biddle, assemble a second away team—make certain that you include a few Marines from Lieutenant Beck's security detachment. Same precautions as Mister Shrak; I want you in full EVA suits. Board _White Cloud_ and go over every square millimeter of that ship. Try to find out what happened to her crew, make _certain_ her systems and orbit are stable, search the vessel for contraband, and secure her. If she has been abandoned, and her systems are operational, I want a full decontamination of her interior before you go helmets off." Matt paused, and then he smiled. "I'm assigning Crewman Zapata to your team—have him go through their computer and see what's she been up to. I'll leave the rest of your party up to you."

"Aye, aye, Sir," the operations officer said as she unhooked the restraining straps and stood. "Permission to leave the bridge, Sir?"

"Granted, Miss Biddle. And Miss Biddle?"

"Sir?"

"_Every_ member of your team beams over there armed—is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," Grace replied with a grimace. She was perhaps the only of Matt's senior officers (other than Counselor Trinculo) who did not care for carrying a weapon. "I will wear one, Sir."

Matt leaned forward and frowned at the lovely blue world on the viewer, and the sharply racked nacelles of the Orion _Clipper_ hovering between the planet and _Republic_. He pressed a stud on the arm of his chair. "Bridge to Commander Philips."

"_Philips here, Captain. I take it our EVA to install the armor will be delayed?_"

"Yes, Mister Philips. Have we enough raw materials to fabricate two dozen probes?"

"_Easily, sir_."

"Then have Mister Vasa start the manufacturing process. In addition, I may need some of your engineers on the _White Cloud_ or the surface, depending on what exactly my away teams discover, Commander. Do you have a problem with that?"

"_None, sir_."

"Good. Is Mister Malik there with you?"

"_Yes, sir_."

"Mister Malik, what is the minimum crew required of a _Clipper_-class vessel to safely bring her into port?"

"_They are highly automated, sir. At absolute minimum, an engineer and pilot can get her into warp, but I'd recommended at least one officer and around a dozen crew. Maybe a few more if she is going a long distance_."

"And her total accommodations?"

"_It varies, Sir. She's small, about the size of the Nova-class, but a slaver has more life support capacity and accommodations than a blockade runner, or a yacht. The Orions custom build those ships—no two are exactly the same. But it can't be more than sixty or seventy at full load, perhaps as many as a hundred if she is a slaver_."

"We might end up seizing her, Mister Malik, and if so I will need a crew to man that ship until we reach a Starbase. Start going through the crew roster—and Philip's engineers—and assemble a list of personnel to man her if we claim her as a prize."

"_Aye, aye, Sir_."

"Miss Montoya?"

"Sir?"

"Miss Montoya, I will be in my ready room. It is precisely twenty-five steps from my desk there to my chair here. You will have the conn in my absence."

"_Me_?" she squealed, her voice rising two octaves, as Matt and Pavel Roshenko smiled.

"You, Miss Montoya. Lieutenant Commander Roshenko is your senior, but you will be the officer of the deck. You will have the conn. Inform me immediately if there is a status change," Matt stood. "Pavel, let me know when you are ready to launch the probes. Miss Montoya, the conn is yours," Matt continued with a sly smile as he stepped away from the chair.

"Aye, aye, Sir," the helmsman answered, as she moved over towards and then sat down in his vacant chair. "I have the conn."

"Good seal, Mister Roberts?" asked Chief Bronson as he latched the helmet in place. Chris nodded and then gave the older NCO a thumbs up, but then he saw the chief chuckling through the visor of his own EVA helmet.

Chris blushed. "All green, Chief," he said over the built-in comm.

"That's the spirit, Sir. Keep your sense of humor and you'll go far in this Star Fleet. First time wearing this setup for real?"

"Well, we did practice in a depressurized cargo bay aboard the training ship _Kongo_ at the academy . . ." Chris's voice trailed off.

"Take it slow and easy, Sir. _White Cloud_ has internal gravity and atmosphere—but we don't know about the composition of that atmosphere. Your air flow good?"

"Yes, Chief."

"Give me a 360 rotation, Sir," Bronson said as he backed away and set a wall monitor in Transporter Room 3 to display mode. As Chris slowly turned around in a circle, the camera built into the suit's helmet showed the rest of the twelve-member away team making their own final preparations. "Good, good."

"You are set, Mister Roberts. Got your tricorder and phaser?"

"Yes, Chief," Chris answered in a slightly exasperated voice.

"You have loaded the schematics of the _White Cloud_ into your tricorder?"

"Yes, Chief."

"And your phaser is locked on stun?"

"Yes, Chief!"

"Check it, please, Mister Roberts," Bronson half-suggested and half-ordered.

Chris pulled the phaser from his belt holster, keeping it pointed away from the rest of the crew. Yes, it was set on stun, and yes he had it locked to prevent the setting from being changed. "Yes, Chief, phaser is set."

"Is it armed, Sir? Or do you still have it on safe mode?"

Chris blushed; no, he hadn't armed the weapon—which meant it wouldn't fire if he pressed the stud. "Yes, Chief; it's armed now," the ensign whispered as he pressed the priming key and placed the weapon back into its holster.

"Don't worry none, Sir. My first away mission I forget to arm my phaser and got the surprise of my life when it didn't work against two Nausicaan smugglers on Deneb Kaitos III. Got four broken ribs, a shattered scapula, and fractured skull from those two before the rest of my team could react—but I've never forgot to arm my phaser since, Mister Roberts."

Grace Biddle stepped up onto the transporter pad with the first beam-in section. "Energize," she said, and six sparkling waterfalls of light appeared and they vanished.

"Our turn, Mister Roberts," the NCO whispered over the comm as he mounted the platform.

Chris followed and he turned around to face the transporter chief. And then he heard Isaac Bronson's quiet voice again as the chief cleared his throat. "Mister Roberts, you are the senior officer of this section."

Chris blushed, and he quickly looked to make certain everyone was on their assigned pad. "Energize," he ordered, and the transporter hummed and came to life, beaming him across to the bridge of the _White Cloud_.

And then he materialized into a scene out of Hell. Chris gagged as he saw the bloody mass of twisted and distorted tissue and bone that oozed out of the captain's chair. He quickly averted his eyes, but the helm, the navigation station, the tactical console, the engineering station—all of them were occupied by those . . . _things_.

He retched, seeing the trails of blood and feces and urine that covered the deck and bulkheads, and then Chief Bronson stepped up directly in front of him and took hold of his EVA suit.

"Deep breath, Mister Roberts! Don't you vomit into that helmet, Sir!" he said quietly, his voice stern, but gentle—and filled with unease. "I'm increasing your O2 flow by 5%, take a deep breath, relax . . . and be glad we can't smell this, Sir."

Chris felt the cool, crisp airflow into the helmet increase slightly, and he nodded slowly. "Sorry, Chief; I wasn't expecting . . ." his voice trailed off.

"Easy, Sir. Easy."

Grace tapped her comm badge. "Away Team Two to _Republic_."

"_Go ahead, Miss Biddle_," Chris heard the Captain say.

"Sir. We've found part of the _White Cloud_'s crew. Sir, they appear to have been caught in a transporter malfunction—their patterns . . . their patterns must have shifted and collapsed during materialization. It's a mess over here, Sir."

"_Understood, Miss Biddle; we are receiving your video transmission_," the Captain said in a tight clipped voice. "_Do you need assistance_?"

"Negative, Captain. We will begin sweeping the ship. Away Team Two, out."

"Mister Zapata," she said quietly. "It appears their main computer interface is on Deck 2; take Harrison and see what you can find there. We'll divide into teams of two, people, and conduct a compartment by compartment search—including Jeffries tubes. Maintain communications with me and the ship. Leave the . . . bodies . . . alone for now—but get full tricorder scans for medical. She's only got six decks, so this shouldn't take long."

As the away team divided up and began to move towards the turbolifts, she turned to the ensign. "Chris, you all right now?"

"Yes, ma'am. Sorry ma'am; it won't happen again."

"All right, then; get cracking Mister Roberts—Deck Three."

"Aye, aye, ma'am," Chris answered. "Chief, shall we?"

"After you, Mister Roberts."

*****************************************************

Chan materialized in the center square of the New Columbia colony, the early morning mist from the nearby lake covering the ground in a haze of fog. He waited until the other two beam-down sections arrived. "Divide into teams of two and conduct a search of the city," he ordered. "Tricorders out; I want constant communication with all search teams. Take it slow and easy, gentlemen; let's see if we can find where they have all gone off to."

"Mister Park," he said to the young engineering ensign. "You are with me."

"Yes, sir."

Chan opened his own tricorder and took a reading of the area, comparing it with the maps of the city stored in its databanks. Finally, he nodded and began to move off to the east—towards the tall hills that bordered the city on that side. "Their emergency shelters are in this direction, Mister Park; I think we will start our search there."

"There's no signs of combat, sir—and no bodies," Jin Park commented as they walked, his tricorder humming.

"No. Just this mist. Atmospheric composition?"

"I'm not detecting any contaminants, Sir. And background radiation is exactly as the archive computers indicated; no trace of weapons fire, either. But, that's odd."

"What's odd, Ensign?"

Jin stopped and he frowned at the tricorder. "I've got a power source up ahead, sir—a _big_ one. And according to the schematic, there shouldn't be anything putting out this kind of power in that location—it's a park, Sir."

"A park, Mister Park?" Chan said with a grim chuckle. "No need to answer that, Ensign."

Chan took a look at his own tricorder, and adjusted the controls frowning. He opened a broadcast channel. "This is Shrak. I want Lieutenant Bowen to report to my location immediately."

"Come, Mister Park. Let's see what is producing all of that power."

The two officers continued walking through the streets of the city, and then they entered an expansive area of green trees, manicured grass still wet with the dew of the morning mist. And in the middle of the park, there was a massive device.

"Life signs, Mister Park?"

"None within two kilometers, sir. And only indigenous animal lifeforms outside of that radius."

Chan slowly approached the bulky object, his tricorder humming. "Ensign, does this design look familiar to you?"

"It's generating a sub-space signal, but on a frequency I haven't seen used before . . . Commander?" He suddenly paused. "Could it be a transporter beacon? I'm showing a stabilization of the sub-space field in the area around it."

"Exactly what I was thinking, Ensign," Chan said. From out of the mist, the shapes of Lieutenant Bowen and a Marine appeared, and Bowen whistled.

"That doesn't look like it belongs here, Commander."

"No, Lieutenant, thank you for stating the obvious. I want a full analysis of this device—Mister Park, assist Mister Bowen. Corporal Thiesman—you're with me."

As the two engineers began to inspect and study the object, Chan and the Marine moved out towards the emergency shelters. After a short walk, they reached the entrance, which was not sealed. Chan descended the steps, his tricorder humming as they went, and the Marine followed, his phaser rifle at the ready.

Seventy-five meters down, they reached the turbo-lift shafts that connected to the secure bunker one kilometer deep. Built in the aftermath of the Dominion attacks, emergency shelters such as this one were designed to house the population of the colony during even the worst planetary assaults—and they were shielded against sensors to prevent any attacker from detecting the people within. But the shelter was empty, with no sign that any of the colonists had attempted to reach it.

After searching the desolate, spartan rooms buried beneath the surface, Chan and Thiesman once again emerged on the surface, and Chan's helmet comm beeped.

"This is Shrak."

"_Bowen, Sir. Ensign Park is right—it's a transporter beacon, but one a massive scale. I've never even seen plans for one this large_."

"Why would someone need such a device, Lieutenant," Chan asked.

"_Sir . . . the only reason I can think of is that some is attempting interstellar transport. Given enough power, we know it is possible—but very difficult in theory. But with a transporter beacon of this magnitude, it might, might be accomplished, if the entity using the transporters has enough power_."

"Thank you, Mister Bowen. Shrak to _Republic_."

"_Go ahead, Chan_," Matt answered.

"Sir, I think we've found something. There is a sub-space transporter beacon—a massive one—down here in the colony. It's operating on a kappa-band sub-space frequency; retuning the lateral sensor arrays to that frequency might detect a transporter ionization trail."

"_You think the colony was beamed away?_"

"Sir, I don't know. But this beacon has to be here for a reason."

"_Mister Roshenko is adjusting the sensors now, Chan . . . yes. There is a transporter trace surrounding the colony and extending into deep space_."

"Captain," Chan slowly said. "Mister Bowen believes that with a beacon this powerful, interstellar transport might be possible."

"_Understood. Anything else?_"

"Negative, sir. No bodies, no colonists, and no signs of weapons fire in the colony itself. I don't think the colonists are here anymore."

"_Neither do I, Chan. Neither do I,_" Matt paused. "_And given what Grace found on the White Cloud . . . let's get your search parties back aboard ship, Commander. I'll put the science labs and Miss Tsien on tracking down that trace._"

"Aye, aye, Sir."


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

". . . and as we thought, Sir, the instrumentation showed that all of the New Columbia colonists within the 5 kilometer range of the beacon were beamed away in the dead of night. The beacon contains a buffer; however, its memory was wiped immediately after the transport, and provided no information on where they were beamed to. Or any residual patterns."

"Thank you, Mister Bowen, for your report," Matt said quietly as the junior engineer sat back down. The Captain tapped his stylus on the conference table of the Primary Briefing Room, aft of the bridge. "Miss Biddle?"

Grace remained seated, but she did change the wall and table monitors from the schematic of the beacon to show a series of ship's logs. "As you suspected, Sir, the logs aboard _White Cloud_ were heavily encrypted, but Crewman Zapata was able to break that encryption. They indicate that the ship and her Orion crew were hired to deliver this beacon to New Columbia—by a being they refer to as Inderi. Neither the race nor gender of this being were revealed in the logs, but they were contracted on Havalis II."

"Inderi hired the _White Cloud_ to deliver the beacon, with instructions to approach New Columbia in the dead of night, colony time. Once in orbit, they were to beam down the device, and leave orbit—then they were to transmit a message via sub-space radio. They were instructed to return after two hours, retrieve the beacon and return to Havalis. No questions asked."

The Ops officer sighed. "According to his logs, the Orion shipmaster decided to remain in orbit and transmit the sub-space signal. He thought that the device was a weapon being tested—and he wanted to record the evidence in case Star Fleet tracked him down afterwards. We have the bridge recordings of what happened next," she continued quietly, and pressed another stud.

The monitors showed the crew of the Orion ship going about their stations, and then each was caught in the stream of a transporter beam. They began to scream as their flesh shifted and melted, and Matt could hear Andrea Trincullo gasp, and Amanda Tsien gag.

"Computer monitor off; stop playback," he said quietly. "Continue, Miss Biddle."

Grace nodded; her face pale and drawn. "_White Cloud_ was caught in the beam, but not in the range of the beacon. Her crew partially dematerialized, but not fully—and their own movements within the transporter stream literally _shredded_ their patterns. I've seen a few examples of this in the records from the earliest days of transporter experimentation, along with a handful of accidents, but nothing on this scale. Every member of that ship's crew, their pattern was altered, broken—and then the beam ended. And they rematerialized. The lucky ones were already dead, but at least four lived for several hours. And they all remained conscious and fully aware of what was happening during the transport."

"The worst was the ship's owner—who wasn't the same as its master. He was in his cabin with the slave girls of his harem; all five of them. They were _fused_ into a single organic being, it was . . ." Grace shook her head and tightened her lips. "Structurally, the ship is sound, and she _is_ carrying goods that are illegal in Federation space."

"Miss Tsien?" Matt said after Grace went quiet.

The science officer also hit a control and the wall monitor flared back to life projecting the spatial geography of the immediate space surrounding New Columbia. Perched right on the frontier, the colony led to a narrow passage between Romulan and Ferengi space to the Cygnus Sector, with dozens of independent systems interspaced. "Transporters normally leave a minute trace behind that under normal conditions dissipates fairly rapidly. This was not a normal use of the transporter as we understand it. It left a trace that our sensors have been able to identify," she touched the stud again and a blinking line appeared that stretched out away from New Columbia. "We've only been able to resolve the trace out to one light-year, but I've configured the lateral sensors and the long-range sensors to detect it, Captain. We will have to keep Warp speeds fairly low—Warp Four, perhaps even Warp Three—in order to back-trace it, but the sensors can handle the task."

"How long until the trace dissipates, Miss Tsien?" asked Chan.

She shook her head. "Hours? Days? I don't know for certain, Commander Shrak."

Pavel stared at the star charts. "The trace isn't heading towards Havalis II."

"No, Mister Roshenko, it isn't," Matt answered.

"Mister Malik," he said to the chief engineer. "I want an all hands effort get the _White Cloud_ ready for space—including a proper burial for the crew. Lieutenant Bowen. I am appointing you as the executive officer aboard the _White Cloud_, assisting Commander Philips who will be in command. Sean," he said to the Corps of Engineers officer, "I'm going to assign you some of Mister Beck's Marines. Your jacket indicates you did two tours with Star Fleet Intelligence, and I want you to take that ship to Havalis II and find this Inderi."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

Matt smiled grimly. "Don't worry, Sean; I'm not going to stick you out on a limb here. I'll be informing Star Fleet Command of the situation immediately after this briefing—and if they say no, we won't do this. But from Admiral Parker's briefing, there aren't too many starships in this 'quiet little sector'. I think we are going to have to handle this ourselves."

"While you are heading to Havalis II, I will take _Republic_ and back-trace the transporter trail; either until we find the planet of origin or it ends."

"And then, Sir?" asked Commander Philips.

"And then, Commander, I have to decide how to deal with people who abduct _twelve thousand_ citizens of the United Federation of Planets. I think a photon torpedo or four delivered a few kilometers outside their capital will be a good place to begin negotiations from," he finished with a perfectly straight face.

And the low growl in answer from his own officers showed that they agreed.

********************************************************

"My god," Josiah Parker said over the secure sub-space channel. "Someone _transported_ away all _twelve thousand_ of the colonists? _Everyone_?"

Matt just sat there and slowly nodded. "I've got a few leads, Admiral Parker, but I felt I needed to send this up the chain just as fast as possible."

"Yeah," Josiah said as he sat back, running his hand through his thinning hair; hair that was getting greyer by the day. "We are stretched too thin, Matt. The closest ships I've got are Sig Hansen's security group at Starbase 114." Josiah frowned. "He's flying his flag from the _Akira_-class _Blackhawk_, and he also has the _Defiant_s _Balao_ and _Thunderer_, plus the _Steamrunner_s _Arrogant_ and _Franklin_."

He concentrated on a monitor off-screen of the small viewer on Matt's desk, and then he looked up. "_Balao_ can be there in five days—if her drives hold together for that long. _Arrogant_ in seven, but _Blackhawk_ is the middle of a warp core refit. _Franklin_ and _Thunderer_ are at least ten days out."

Matt grimaced. "I don't like pulling all the ships off this section of the border, Admiral. Like I said, I've got a couple of leads—and I am putting a prize crew on _White Cloud_, with Sean Philips as her commander."

Josiah nodded his approval. "Sean's overdue for a fourth pip. But those _Clipper_s don't carry a lot of firepower, and their fragility . . ."

"I'm not planning on sending Sean into combat—I hope. I'll be sending him to Havalis II to try and track down this Inderi, with a few of my Marines as backup."

And Josiah winced again. "Technically Havalis II is an independent system, but it is really an outpost for the Ferengi Commerce Authority . . . they will _not_ like a ship crewed by Star Fleet poking our nose into their business there."

"Consider this a chance to hone your diplomatic skills, Admiral," Matt said with a wry smile.

"And _Republic_?"

"I'll be taking her after whoever beamed away the colonists. We've got a transporter trace that might lead us to where they taken. And since we don't know what we are dealing with here, Admiral, I might need some of that backup," Matt finished with an unhappy expression on his face.

"Agreed. I'll also cut orders for _Independence_ to get underway immediately. She can be there in eight days at maximum warp."

Matt raised an eyebrow. "A _Sovereign_? You are taking this seriously."

"Matt you are talking about someone who can beam _twelve thousand_ people between star systems. We've met a few races, including the Dominion, with interstellar transporter technology, but not on _this_ scale. But that is beside the point. Yes, pursue this matter, and find out where our people are—or if they are even still alive."

"And if they aren't, Admiral?" Matt asked softly.

"If it were up to me, I'd . . . damn, Matt," the Chief of Star Fleet Operations said, as he shook his head. "I'm not certain what I'd do. I will need to brief the President."

"We'll find them, Sir. And we _will_ bring them home."

"Godspeed, Captain Dahlgren—and good hunting."

Matt leaned back in his chair as the screen blanked and tapped his comm badge.

"Dahlgren to Shrak."

"_Sir_."

"Status on our transfers to _White Cloud_?"

"_Fifteen minutes and she will be ready for departure, Captain Dahlgren_."

"Very well, Mister Shrak; I'll be on the bridge shortly. Have Miss Montoya lay in a course along the path of the transport trace at the highest warp speed which allows Miss Tsien to detect its course. Engage as soon as the transfers are complete."

"_Aye, aye, Sir_."

"And Mister Shrak?"

"_Sir_?"

"I want shields up and weapons manned and ready."

"_Aye, aye, Sir_."

Sean Philips watch the view screen as _Republic_ spun around and then quickly accelerated to warp on the trail of the transporter trace. The sparkle and flash of light as she broke the Warp barrier faded from the viewer, and then he turned around to face the handful of crewmen he had assembled on the bridge of the _White Cloud_.

"All right, folks, we've a job to do—and that ship and the colonists are depending on us to do it right," he said. "Mister Bowen; excuse me, Gerald," Sean said with a smile, "we are going into the heart of darkness; a Ferengi trade world. Collect uniforms from everyone and seal them away in the ship's vault."

One of the marines jerked. "This ship has a freaking vault?" she asked.

"Yeah, Sandy," Sean answered, shaking his head. "With thirty-five kilos of gold-pressed latinum stored inside. Among other things."

The Marines, Philips engineer's, and Bowen shook their heads in shock. Crewman Herman Zapata blurted out, "That's 3,500 hundred bars of latinum!"

"Ah, Skipper," one of the engineers cut in, "turn in our uniforms? Are we going _naked_ then?"

"Don't you wish, Will," muttered Sandy.

Sean shook his head. "No, ladies and gentlemen. Civilian clothes—we aren't Star Fleet anymore, we are Orion _pirates_! And speaking of which, I'll need your comm badges as well."

He sat down a box of Orion wrist-comms. "Use these instead—I replicated them myself and each has a transporter beacon built in, and all the capabilities of our normal comm badges besides. Marines, there is a fully stocked armory with a hodge-podge of weapons—pick your own, but I don't want to see Star Fleet phasers on every person; that's not how the Orions roll."

"What about medical?" Gerald asked as he dropped his comm badge into the box, took one of the wrist-comms and locked it in place on his arm. "We don't have a doctor, Commander."

"No ranks, Gerald. And while we don't have an actual physician, we do have medical support. Computer," he said, "activate Emergency Medical Hologram."

There was a flash of light and a holographic image of a bald headed man dressed in Star Fleet uniform suddenly appeared on the bridge. "What is the nature of your medical emergency?" he asked, and then cocked his head to one side. "Star Fleet? Star Fleet! It's about time you came to rescue me!"

"An EMH! How the devil did the Orions get an EMH!" Bowen exclaimed.

"They stole it; and this ship has holo-emitters _everywhere_; the doctor can travel throughout the ship, including the Jefferies tubes."

The hologram looked around and then his face fell, and he sighed. "I'm not going back to Star Fleet am I?" it asked.

Sean grinned. "You are, but first we are going undercover."

"I'm a Doctor, damn it, not a spook!"

"There are _twelve thousand_ civilian lives at stake here, Doctor," Sean answered. "We've got to track down Inderi and try and find them."

"Inderi? I met her the last time she came aboard—treated her for some radiation poisoning back on Havalis II. First time in months I've had to treat anything other than sexual transmitted diseases; you wouldn't believe the things I have had to deal . . ."

"I really don't need to know this part, Doctor," Sean said.

". . . with, being treated like a piece of furniture and not a highly skilled, trained surgeon and physician that I am; and now I get to pretend to be a undercover field agent . . ."

"Computer, end EMH program," Sean said, as the Doctor looked up at him sharply, and then faded out.

"Annoying bugger, isn't he?" The engineer shook her head and turned a serious face on his crew. "Get squared away, get changed, and get to your stations. We are moving out in ten minutes for Havalis. And don't worry about the risk of contamination; your quarters were thoroughly disinfected before your arrival."

***************************************************

Sean walked through the doors to the spacious and luxuriously appointed ready room, aft of the bridge. He shook his head. The Orions really did like their creature comforts, he thought as he circled the _marble_ desk, his booted feet sinking deep into the plush carpeting of the deck. He sat down in the chair, and jerked as the seat began to conform to precisely to his body—it was unnerving. He shook his head though.

"Computer, activate EMH."

"Please state the nature of the medical emer . . . oh, it's you again. Didn't you get enough of a laugh by shutting me off in mid-sentence once?"

"You said that you met Inderi?"

"Yes. She didn't talk much, but was in much better health than the original crew of this vessel—even with the radiation poisoning."

"Tell me about her."

The holographic doctor frowned. "I am bound by doctor-patient confidentiality. Medical ethics are a large part of my programming."

"And how's your survival instincts, Doctor? I have a crack computer-man sitting out there would love to take a peek at your core programming."

"Threats? Can't you solids interacts with holograms in any manner other than threats? You are as bad as the Orions, I have half a mind to rep . . ."

"Doctor? Inderi?"

The hologram sighed. "What do you want to know?"

"Race, gender, height, weight—a picture would be good. Your impressions of her—why she was aboard this ship; that sort of thing."

"Well, she is a she: a female Antaran. Reasonably intelligent, but obviously a criminal who associates with the Orion Syndicates; although I got the impression that she was more of a free-lancer than part and parcel of the Orion mob."

The Doctor turned the captains monitor around and tapped a few keys, and then spun it back aground again, this time with a picture of an Antaran female on the screen. "That's her height, weight, skin coloration, eye coloration, and cranial ridge patterns. I cannot, ethically tell any more of her medical condition than she was suffering from low levels of radiation poisoning."

"Exotic radiations?"

"No, it appeared more to be leakage from her ship—an old Vulcan Warp-shuttle, _Shirak_-class, I think she said. The impulse engine shielding needs to be replaced, she's being deluged with beta-particles; in low doses, of course, but over the long-term she will suffer serious medical side effects if she does not repair the engine."

"Anything else, Doctor?"

"Oh, so you can ask nicely—that's good to know. I was not privy to any of her conversations with Baron Jowar, or Shipmaster Palin. And she discussed nothing with me in sickbay except for her medical status. Well, we did talk a bit about her needing to make a long-distance flight in the shuttle after the ship returns to Havalis II. I, of course, recommended against such a flight until after the impulse shield has been replaced. But I do not believe she was planning on taking my advice."

"How long a flight, did she say?"

"Eleven days at warp, she said."

Sean leaned back, and once again the seat began crawling over his back. He shook his head and stood up, activating his wrist-comm. "Gerald."

"Sir."

"Pull up the specs on the old _Shirak_-class warp shuttle; I want to know all possible destinations within eleven days of Havalis II at her maximum warp capacity. And configure the sensors to detect beta-emissions from a poorly maintained _Shirak_-class impulse engine."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

"Thank you Doctor, you have been most helpful."

"I am so happy that you feel that way, Sir. The chair is not to your liking?"

"No; I'd rather have something a bit more solid."

The hologram sighed. "Computer, disable automatic metamorphic adaptations in Baron Jowar's day-office. And now, you may deactivate me if there is not a real medical emergency at hand."

"Computer, end EMH."

Sean sat back down slowly, and this time the chair remained solid and firm. I'll be, he thought.

He keyed his wrist-comm again. "Zapata."

"Sir?"

"Can you change the EMH's appearance?"

There was a pause. "I believe so, sir."

"Good. I'll send you the physical profile of Baron Jowar—the previous owner of this vessel. Let's make sure that Inderi gets to meet the good Baron once again."


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

"Captain's Log, Stardate 53753.0, USS _Republic_. We have been trailing the abduction of the colonists from New Columbia for more than twelve hours now. As predicted by Miss Tsien, the transporter trace is grower weaker and weaker, forcing us to slow to Warp Three in order for our sensors to detect it. I have, of course, had Stellar Cartography plot the track forward to identify any star systems that lie within its path—and there are three that might be the origination point. I cannot, however, discount the possibility that the colonists were beamed aboard a ship of some sort, so we continue our slow progress searching for any evidence we can find."

"So far, we have not detected any signs that a ship was involved; having no trace of warp drives being in use in this region for the past forty-eight hours. I am tempted to simply bypass following the trace to investigate the systems ahead in more detail, but at the current rate of signature decay, we will only be able to detect the trace for another seven hours. No. On the chance that the colonists were beamed aboard a ship I will continue to follow this trace until it dissipates below the threshold of sensor sensitivity."

"The current plot draws close to the Romulan border, although it does not—quite—cross into their space. I suspect that our presence here, and the leisurely advance of _Republic_ with every sensor onboard lit up has provoked questions among the border outposts. Although the Star Empire was our ally against the Dominion a short time ago, they remain as vigilant as ever at defending the slightest incursion into their space. Accordingly, I have directed that the crew remain at Condition Two under modified Yellow Alert, rotating on-and-off duty in four hour shifts, while maintaining raised shields and manned weapon stations."

"Computer, save log entry," Matt said. He finished the last of a tall glass of iced tea and then he stood and limped over to his private head and relieved himself.

*****************************************************

"Mister Shrak, I have the conn," Matt announced as he entered the confines of the bridge.

The Andorian stood and he nodded as he stepped aside. "Captain has the conn."

"Any change?"

"None, Captain Dahlgren; the trace continues to dissipate at the projected rates. No contacts—hostile or friendly—on long- or medium-range sensors. We are collecting a great deal of information on the Romulan border defenses, however—and some of their outposts are attempting to jam our sensors."

"Attempting?"

"Unsuccessfully, Captain."

"Very well, Chan; get some rack time. I'll see you in four . . ."

"CONTACT!" Barked out Pavel Roshenko from Tactical. "Romulan Warbird decloaking! _Valdore_-class, Captain; she has her shields raised and her weapons are armed. Sir; they are hailing us."

"Have they crossed the border, Mister Roshenko?"

"No, sir."

"On screen, Mister Roshenko," Matt said calmly, as Chan made his way to the Mission Ops console and took station behind it.

The main viewer blanked and then projected the image of a Romulan Commander, seated in front of the Imperial Eagle of the Star Empire.

"I am Commander Borahn, of the Warbird _Nei'rrhael_."

"And I am Matthew Dahlgren, Captain of the Federation starship _Republic_. What can we assist the Star Empire with today, Commander?"

The Romulan folded his hands before him on the screen and adjusted his jaw. "We could not help but notice the . . . stately pace of your advance in parallel to our border, Captain Dahlgren." And his features hardened. "And your probing of our outposts with your sensors. Both are most unusual for a Federation vessel; particularly here so far away from core systems."

"Ah, yes. I have decided to stroll through the Corridor, Commander Borahn, rather than sprint."

"Stroll?"

"Have you ever felt that sometimes the press of duty calls upon us all to rush by and ignore the majestic beauty of space, Commander? I am en route to the Cygnus sector, and have chosen to take a more leisurely speed to admire the stellar formations here."

"With your shields raised and your weapons armed? Most unusual for a vessel looking at the stars."

Matt chuckled. "I told you, Mister Shrak, that we couldn't fool a Romulan."

"Yes, sir," the executive officer answered, forcing his antennae to twitch. And the Romulan's expression changed to one of consternation.

"Some of my officers have proposed that you are spying on the Empire, Captain . . . this is not a laughing matter."

"Oh, we are not spying on the Star Empire, Commander. We are hoping to attract two rouge Ferengi marauders that have been preying on Federation and neutral shipping."

The jaw of the Romulan tightened again. "We have had no reports of any such marauders."

"The Ferengi choose weaker prey, Commander. Do you expect them to cross your border and assault your shipping?"

Commander Borahn sat back, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. "Your Federation is not weak."

"No, but we are stretched thin—as is the Star Empire. And we normally do not answer a Ferengi overreach with plasma torpedoes—as does the Star Empire."

"You speak the truth, Captain. But I fail to see what you hope to achieve . . . your vessel is a relic of times long ago; two marauders with capable Damons will make short work of you."

"That is quite simple, Commander Borahn—we're bait."

The Romulan squinted. "Bait? Bait implies a fisherman; yet you are alone."

"Perhaps not as alone as you might think, Commander."

"Captain, our sensors do not lie—your ship is the only Federation vessel in this sector."

"Did I say that our fishermen were Federation, Commander?"

"No," the Romulan said with his eyes narrowing, and he made a small gesture to his crew off-screen with one hand, "but I doubt that Martok would send a ship so far."

"Gowron would not have . . . but Gowron is now dead, Commander Borahn. And Chancellor Martok realizes the debt that the Klingon Empire owes to the Federation."

"Still, a bird of prey or two will not avail you against . . . just _any_ attacker."

"Again you make assumptions, Commander. A _Bat'lah_-class battle cruiser is no mere bird of prey."

The Romulan leaned forward, one eyebrow raised. "A _Bat'lah_? The Klingons, not even that foolish Martok would send such a powerful ship so far for Ferengi." He sat back. "I have half a mind to cross the border, and see for myself, Captain, just what your intentions truly are."

"That would be most unwise, Commander Borahn. Mister Shrak, signal _Val_'_qis_ and ask Captain Krull to launch his attack run the moment _Nei'rrhael_ crosses into Federation space. Mister Roshenko, arm photon torpedoes and lock our weapons onto the Romulan ship."

Borahn sat back and folded his hands together again. "I think you are bluffing, Captain."

"Yes, because the Federation has _never_ confronted the Star Empire with cloaked Klingon battle cruisers in support."

For several moments neither captain said a word, and then Borahn nodded. "Continue your stroll, Captain Dahlgren—but do not stray such much as one micron across our border."

The screen blanked, replaced by the stars streaking by as the Romulan Warbird cut off their transmission.

"They are altering course on a heading back into the interior of Romulan space, Captain," Pavel reported.

"Secure torpedoes, Mister Roshenko, and safe the weapons. Mister Shrak," Matt said with a smile. "Hail '_Val_'_qis_' once again and inform Captain Krull he may stand down."

"With pleasure, Captain Dahlgren," the Andorian answered, his antennae aquiver.

********************************************

"Hold still!" the holographic doctor said as ran the dermal knitter across the long and ragged tear in Chief Mayhew's shin. "How did anyone as clumsy as you ever pass the Star Feet physical in the first place? Stepping into open space because you expected an Orion smuggler to have a personnel lift like Star Fleet engineering does? Hah! This crew made do with ladders. But at least you are not depleting my supply of anti-biotics and anti-virals. I suppose you are going to want pain medication as well?" He finished with his hands on his hips, glaring at the engineering tech.

The doors to the small, well-furnished sick bay slid open and Sean walked in. "How is he?"

"He will be fine; it is just a shallow gash in his right leg and a bump on his head—not to mention the dislocated shoulder where Ensign Park grabbed hold and keep him from falling onto the warp reactor."

"Sorry, siRAAAAH!" the tech yelped as the Doctor placed his hands on the shoulder joint and popped it back into place.

"There. Now would you like an analgesic to go with that?"

"Did you finish those power conversions I asked you for?" Sean continued, trying to distract the crewman from the pain.

"No, sir. I don't see how they managed to get a civilian power profile out of the engines! That thing is so over-powered, New Columbia should have spotted them a light-year out . . . and I don't know how we are going to just sneak in past the Ferengi at Havalis II."

"Why don't you use the cloaking device?" the Doctor asked as he placed the tech's arm into a sling.

Sean's eyes bulged from his head. "_What_ cloaking device?"

"The cloaking device that the Orions used to get into orbit around New Columbia; one of the Orions mentioned it was an older Klingon model they got second hand," the Doctor continued as he adjusted the sling. "There. Take two aspirin and don't call me unless it is an emergency."

Sean slowly counted to ten. "Doctor. _Where_ is the cloaking device?"

The hologram frowned. "How should I know, I'm a doctor not an engineer. Could you shut me down on your way out? And turn off the lights; waste not, want not, and all of that, you know."

The Doctor looked from Sean to the tech and back again, puzzled at the expressions on their faces.

"What? Was it something I said?"

************************************************

"It was concealed behind a workstation in engineering, Sir," Gerald Bowen said, shaking his head in disbelief. "They tore out the tertiary bank of containment field generators for the warp core in order to hide it."

Sean Philip's jaw dropped. "Are they insane?"

"That I don't know, Sir. They rigged the control panels for the tertiary safeties to duplicate the readouts for the secondaries—which is why we didn't notice the backups weren't working. The compartment was lined with monotanium shielding as well; it would have been almost impossible to find on a cursory inspection."

"And the control circuits?"

"Hidden in the Engineering 2 station. I'd would not recommending using it unless absolutely necessary, however."

"I doubt that is because of the Treaty of Algeron, Mister Bowen; so what else is wrong with this cloak?"

"It's a _first_ generation Klingon device, Sir. Like those they installed on the original flight of the Bird of Prey scouts. But the Orions didn't have the room to properly shield the cloak or the plasma shunt providing it with power; if we take a hit while cloaked, it could cause a resonance in the EPS plasma conduits that could blow out half the engineering hull."

"They just left out the safeties? Even the Klingons aren't _that_ crazy!"

"To be fair, the Klingons use cloaking devices in combat—this one isn't set up for that purpose. It seems to be intended to bypass perimeter sensor arrays and allow the ship to get within transporter range of its destination. In fact, the power drain of this cloak is so high that it would take fifteen seconds to reconfigure the power conduits in order to activate our shields or disruptors—_after_ decloaking."

Sean winced. "That shouldn't be a problem; I'm not _planning_ on taking this ship into combat!"

The Orion wrist-comm on Sean's arm beeped. "Go," he said as he pressed a stud.

"_We've got the shuttle on long-range sensors—it's moving towards us, ETA three minutes._"

"Set General Quarters, I'm on my way to the bridge."

Sean and Gerald moved through the sliding doors onto the bridge proper. "Take us to impulse, Mister Sykes. Zapata, have you finished those modifications?"

"I believe so, Sir."

"Computer, activate EMH."

The hologram sprang to life, taking on the appearance of the former owner of the _White Cloud._

"Please state the nature of your medi . . . oh. My," the Doctor stuttered, examining his hands, and then he slowly lifted them and began to feel his face, and the enormous belly that protruded from his abdomen. "What have you _done_ to me?"

"Doctor, we need you to establish contact with Inderi."

"You altered my basic program! Changed my body matrix—how can I even hold a hypospray with these pudgy digits!" He shrieked, waving ten fat fingers, causing that massive belly to ripple. "I'll be laughed out of service; how can I lecture the crew on physical health when I'm carrying 187 kilograms of excess body fat!"

Sean frowned. "It is temporary, Doctor. Just make contact with Inderi."

"And ask her if she wants an examination? I'm a doctor, not . . ."

"You are member of a Star Fleet crew, Doctor!" Sean snapped. "And there are _twelve_ _thousand_ lives at stake here!"

The hologram blinked once, and then twice. "Well. Never let it be said that a hologram didn't do his duty to the Federation. What should I say?"

Zapata cleared his throat. "It's all written out on this PAD, Doctor; ah, I mean Baron."

"Your Grace," the Doctor said absently as he took the PAD and began reviewing his lines.

"Excuse me?"

"Baron Jowar prefers to be addressed as 'Your Grace'. Although from what I gather, the title was bestowed on him not for any noble qualities but for his success in criminal endeavors."

"The shuttle is dropping out of warp, Skipper," Sykes called out from the helm.

"Hail her, and put it on screen. You're on, Your Grace."

On the main viewer an image of Inderi suddenly snapped into focus, and her grey face was pinched. "You are late!"

"And you will address me by my title, Inderi," the Doctor said pompously.

"What was the delay?"

"I am waiting."

"Your Grace, what was the delay?"

"Our engines suffered a . . . problem. We had to drop out of warp to conduct repairs."

"Was the delivery made on schedule?"

"Yes."

"And you retrieved the device?"

"Yes."

She relaxed. "Good. There is a Federation starship too close for comfort in this sector; and I had feared that you might have been caught."

"Never fear, Jowar is here," the Doctor said with a rumbling laugh. "I have _never_ been caught, Inderi—a fact that you should know well." The Antaran nodded slowly, and then the hologram cocked his head. "Those lesions appear fresh; have you been taking the medications my physician prescribed?"

"Stick to the script!" Sean whispered in a rough voice.

"I'll live," the smuggler answered. "You know, Jowar, I half expected that you would be irate that you were used to remove an entire Federation colony."

"A deal's a deal, Inderi. I expect to be well compensated for the risks I took."

Sykes turned around. "We've got a lock, Skipper," he whispered.

"Energize," said Sean. And a transporter beam reached out from _White Cloud_ and enveloped Inderi, dematerializing her. "Corporal, have we got her?"

"_Aye, aye, Sir. She's in the brig and pretty vocal about being double-crossed._"

"I'll be down there directly. Gerald, take a couple of the crew across and vacuum out her computers. Search that shuttle stem-to-stern, as well. Zapata, you're with them."

"What about me?" the Doctor asked. "I want my body back."

"Later, Doctor," Sean said as he moved to the turbolift.

_"Later?_ I can't do my job like _this_. You have to res . . ."

"Computer, end EMH program," Sean said as he stepped into the turbolift.

"_Bridge to Captain Dahlgren,_" the intercom announced. "_Bridge to Captain Dahlgren._"

Matt dragged himself out of a sound sleep, and he hit the key on his bedside comm unit reflexively. "Go ahead," he said sluggishly, as he shook his head to clear away the cobwebs of his slumber.

"_Captain,_" Chan's voice continued over the communicator. "_Lt. Commander Tsien has located the origination point of the transporter beam; we will arrive at the location in two minutes._"

Matt glanced at the time index on the display set beside his bed. And then he frowned. "The beam originated from deep space?"

"_Yes, Sir. According to Miss Tsien._"

"Very well, Chan. Take us out of warp and prepare to launch probes—I want a complete survey of both normal and sub-space in the immediate area. I'll be on the bridge momentarily."

Matt slowly sat up, wincing as his leg cramped, and he slowly kneaded the thigh until the muscles relaxed. He picked up his cane and gingerly stood, and then began to walk towards the door out of his quarters. He stopped for a moment before a mirror, combing his hair black down, and straightening his uniform; then he continued out into the corridor of Deck Three and into the turbolift set directly across the corridor.

"Bridge," Matt said as the doors whistled closed. The turbolift swooshed back along the spine of _Republic_, and then quickly moved up before the doors opened onto the bridge. The captain limped out and moved over towards his chair, where Chan was standing up.

"I have the conn."

"Captain has the conn," Chan intoned in the ritual reply as the ship slowed to impulse power, and Matt sat down.

"All stop, Miss Montoya," he ordered.

"All stop, aye, aye, Sir," the helmsman answered. "Thrusters at station-keeping."

"Initiate a full sensor sweep, Miss Tsien—long-, medium-, and short-range arrays, as well as the lateral-sensors. Mister Roshenko, prepare to launch a probe shell."

"Aye, aye, Sir," the two bridge officers answered.

Matt looked down at this own displays, repeating the data streaming into the Science station. The transporter trace did abruptly end, just two hundred kilometers dead ahead. Not dissipate; the trace simply stopped. This had to be the location from which the beam had been engaged.

But the space immediately around _Republic_ was empty, except for a few stray atoms of hydrogen common to the interstellar deeps of this region.

"Warp signatures, Miss Tsien?"

"None, Captain. But I am detecting an ionization trail that is very similar to our impulse drives," the Science Officer frowned. "But this can't be correct. The levels of radiated and ionized gas are far larger than a single ship could produce."

"How much larger, Miss Tsien?"

"Captain," she started, and then she shook her head. "Sir, it would take a thousand ships with the impulse power of _Republic_ to leave a trail this significant."

Matt raised an eyebrow, but he only nodded.

"Probes are prepped and ready for launch, Captain," said Pavel Roshenko.

"Spherical search pattern, Mister Roshenko. Sensor pallets on active scan, with telemetry back to _Republic_. Miss Montoya, rotate the ship as necessary to the launch the probes on proper vectors."

"Aye, aye, Sir," Isabella answered.

"First pattern is launching," Pavel said, and _Republic_ quivered as four probes streaked away from the forward launchers.

Chan stepped forward besides Matt's chair and he leaned down. "The Council will have a cow when they discover how many probes we have deployed, Captain Dahlgren. I really must endeavor to get a copy of the hearing when they find out—some of them might even suffer a stroke from the expense."

The corner of Matt's mouth twisted slightly into a smile. "Here's to Ambassador Mar having the soul of a miser _and_ a weak heart, Chan."

"We can only hope, Sir."

"Launching sequence two," announced Pavel, as _Republic_ shivered a second time. The turbolift doors opened and Yeoman Sinclair walked in with a large ceramic mug on a tray, along with a small glass of water. "Since the Captain did not have time for a proper breakfast, perhaps he would like some hot cocoa?"

Matt chuckled and shook his head, but he took the steaming mug. "Thank you, Nancy."

"And Doctor Talbot asked that I ensure you take these tablets," the captain's self-appointed watchdog said, holding out a small foil package.

Matt took the foil package, popped out two small white tablets and placed them in his mouth, and then took the small glass of water his yeoman held out, washing them down his throat.

"That will be all, Nancy," Matt said.

"Chief Watannabe should have your real breakfast ready in half an hour, Sir."

"CONTACT! Probe three, heading 032, mark 004! Range . . . 6.5 light-seconds."

"Hold off on that breakfast, Miss Sinclair. Mister Roshenko, can you identify?"

"She's not in our warbook, Sir. And she's _big_."

"_How_ big?"

"Bloody huge, Sir; with more internal volume than a Borg cube. Visuals are coming through telemetry now."

Chan shook his head. "If she's that big, how did we miss her at a range of just six odd light-seconds?"

"Hull composition is monotanium/duranium alloy, Sir," answered Amanda from the science station. "It is rendering our long- and medium-range sensors ineffective. The probes spotted her only when they closed to a distance of five million kilometers, Commander."

"On screen," said Matt.

The main viewer blanked and then showed an elongated cylinder, with a cluster of hundreds of impulse engines at the rear coasting through space. Irregular protrusions covered the hull, along with radiators, sensor arrays, and . . . weapons. A great number of weapons.

"Overall length 7,274 meters, with a beam and a height of 2,744 meters. She maintaining a sub-light speed of 0.75_c_; sir, I'm not detecting any signatures consistent with a warp drive and there are no neutrino emissions typical of matter-antimatter reactions."

Chan jerked, and his antennae shrank slightly. "No warp drives? Are you suggesting that is a generation ship, Lieutenant?"

Before Pavel could answer, Amanda spoke up. "Sir, Science is analyzing the sensor data now—there are over three hundred and fifty thousand _separate_ life forms on board that ship! Including at least ten thousand humans."

"Weapons?"

Pavel shook his head. "She's covered with weapon stations, Sir. But they are all lasers and early phase cannons—and she doesn't have a shield grid. But I am detecting a structural integrity field of very high strength."

Matt stared at the ship on screen for a few moments, and then he nodded. "Mister Malik," he said as he hit a stud on his chair arm. "Have you managed to finish that little project I asked you about?"

"Ready to go on-line at your order, Sir," the Trill responded.

"Then activate the inhibitor. Mister Shrak, set General Quarters throughout the ship and sound Red Alert—Miss Montoya, plot an interception course at Warp 2, drop us to impulse at six hundred kilometers distance and match course and speed with the alien vessel. Let's go meet these people, and find out why they thought it a good idea to abduct our citizens."

"Course plotted, Captain," Isabella answered.

"Mister Shrak, record and transmit to Star Fleet Command, send a copy to Admiral Hansen, as well the starships _Arrogant_, _Balao_, and _Independence_. We have located what appears to be the origination point of the transporter beam involved in the New Columbia abduction. It is a board a sub-light ship—perhaps a generation ship—that is heavily armed, but only with late-generation lasers and early phase cannons. The vessel does not match any in _Republic_s databanks and may be an example of a civilization heretofore not contacted by the Federation. I am initiating First Contact protocols and will investigate the matter further; coordinates and all technical data gathered by sensors on the vessel to this date will be appended to this transmission. Matthew Dahlgren, commanding officer, USS _Republic_."

"Recorded and ready for transmission, Captain Dahlgren," Chan confirmed.

"Send it, Mister Shrak. Mister Roshenko," the captain continued as Chan transmitted the message and Matt kept staring the sensor data collected by the probe. "Am I wrong or does that vessel mount no missile or torpedo launchers?"

"None that we can detect, Sir."

Matt frowned and he typed in a few queries into the computer database, and then he looked back up the screen and shook his head. "Take the torpedo launchers off-line and safe the weapons, Mister Roshenko."

"Sir?"

"Mister Shrak, presume that you are the commanding officer of that vessel; you encounter _Republic_ and a fight ensues. Further presume that you have no experience with photon torpedoes and their resonance when targeted by high-energy weapon systems."

Chan nodded. "With that interlocking array of short-ranged weaponry, Captain Dahlgren, and presuming no prior knowledge of photonic shockwave detonations, I would possibly use my weapons as point-defense to intercept the torpedo before it managed to complete its run."

"And the resulting damage from multiple photonic shockwaves at say, fifty thousand kilometers?"

"Without shields? Their structural integrity field would dampen some of the blast, but they would sustain major—perhaps critical—damage to the vessel's hull, possibly even breaking the spine in half. Depending, of course, on the level of internal reinforcement of the major structural members."

"Mister Roshenko, if that scenario were to play out, how many of the New Columbia colonists could we beam aboard ship before fuel fires and internal secondary detonations tore her to pieces?"

"Not many, Sir."

"No, not many, Mister Roshenko. And even if we had the _time_ to beam them all aboard we simply do not have sufficient _volume_ aboard this ship for twelve thousand refugees. Not to mention the three hundred fifty thousand plus other sentient beings that such an event would condemn."

"Torpedo launchers are now off-line, Captain, and the weapons have been safed."

"Thank you Mister Roshenko. Miss Montoya, take us to Warp 2 and intercept that vessel."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

_Republic_ smoothly made the transition to faster than light speeds, and she rapidly ate up the distance between her previous position and the lumbering alien. And then she slowed once more.

"Holding at six hundred thousand kilometers, Captain."

"Thank you, Miss Montoya. Mister Shrak, hail the vessel on all sub-space and EM frequencies."

"Her weapon systems are coming on-line, Captain," Pavel tersely chimed in from tactical. "And she has polarized her hull plating."

Matt rotated his chair and cocked an eyebrow at Chan, who slowly nodded. "That matches with her observed weaponry, Captain Dahlgren—but will offer little protection against modern phasers."

"Is she taking evasive action, Miss Biddle?"

"Negative, Sir. She is continuing on course for New Columbia."

"At this speed, Miss Biddle, how long until she reaches New Columbia?"

"Seventeen years at her current sub-light velocity, Captain. Give or take a few months."

Matt nodded slowly. "No response to our hails."

"Captain Dahlgren," said Chan, "we are being probed by sensors from the vessel. They are attempting to achieve a transporter lock on our crew."

"Not precisely the response I had hoped for, Mister Shrak. Is Mister Malik's inhibitor functioning?"

"Affirmative, Sir. Their transporter system cannot lock onto us at this time."

"Hail them again."

Chan pressed a few keys and then the shook his head. "No response. Correction, they have increased transporter power by a factor of six."

Matt frowned. "Mister Roshenko. Put a full-power one second burst from the starboard dorsal phaser array across their bow—one kilometer separation."

"Firing phasers, Captain," the tactical officer called out.

"They have ceased their attempt to acquire a transporter lock, Captain. SIR! They are beaming a warhead into space just outside the inhibitor field off our starboard side!" the XO barked.

"Evasive action, Miss Montoya! All power to starboard and aft shields!"

"Brace for impact!" Chan broadcast as _Republic_ sprinted away from the warhead. And then the ship shook as the device exploded. "Conventional fusion explosive, Captain, highly radioactive, yield in the fifty megaton range," the executive officer continued in a clipped voice. "Shields are holding at 96%."

"More transporter traces, Sir," Pavel called out, "I am detecting another eight warheads bracketing us!"

"Warp speed, Miss Montoya!"

_Republic_ jumped into warp, leaving behind the thermonuclear flares of eight new suns.

"Take her back to impulse power at three million kilometers, Miss Montoya."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

Matt rubbed his dry lips, and only now noticed that he knocked his mug of cocoa across the deck. "Damage reports?"

"There is minor radiation contamination to the secondary hull and nacelles—no physical damage."

"Is the probe still in sensor range, Mister Roshenko?"

"Yes, sir—and we must be beyond that vessel's own sensor reach. The probe is showing she is standing down her weapon systems."

Matt nodded. "Miss Tsien, Mister Roshenko, Mister Shrak. I want a full tactical and science analysis of that vessel from what our own sensors showed during that encounter. Mister Roshenko, I want four stealth probes alongside that ship, giving us real-time telemetry via sub-space. Make it fast, people; department head briefing in two hours—and I want answers by then."

The Captain stood and he braced his weight on his cane. "Miss Biddle, you have the conn—any detection of a transporter beam and you are authorized to evade or go to warp on your own initiative—don't wait for my order. I'll be in my ready room."

"Aye, aye, sir," the Andorian answered. "Mister Malik, start decontamination procedures. Mister Roshenko, prep the stealth probes for launch."


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

Two Marines escorted the shackled Antaran into the small conference room aboard _White Cloud_. Sean remained seated as they brought her in and sat her down at the opposite end of the table, scrolling through page after page of information recovered from her shuttlecraft.

Finally, he looked up and glared at the furious woman. "You have been busy—Feringil Delon."

Inderi jerked slightly, and her lips quavered. "Who? My name is Inderi . . ."

"We've cracked your computer encryptions, Madam Delon, and DNA doesn't lie. You are Feringil Delon, also known as Jaspari, also known as Melan Tour, also known as Lindsey Krait, also known as Inderi. There are warrants for your arrest by seventeen Federation member worlds on four dozen separate charges . . . and there will soon be one issued for you role in what occurred at New Columbia."

Sean closed the monitor screen and he met the eyes of the smuggler and criminal facing him. "There is no escape this time, Madame Delon; you will spend the rest of your natural life span on a penal colony undergoing rehabilitation. Unless . . ."

Inderi's eyes grew wide and she looked up at that last word. "Unless?" she croaked.

". . . unless you tell us everything about the people who abducted our colonists from New Columbia."

The Antaran swallowed. "I want a full and complete pardon for my past crimes."

"No."

"No?"

"No, Inderi. What I will do is this: if your information is truthful and it helps us resolve this crisis, I will let you and your shuttle go. We are not in Federation space, after all. You can continue to live your life on the fringe of civilization, or you can you go to Hell. It makes no difference to me. But that offer is contingent on retrieving the colonists safe and sound, Inderi."

"You need my information—and your offer is not good enough to pay for it."

Sean sat back and he snorted. "USS _Republic_ has already found your allies, Inderi; the sub-light generation ship that beamed away the colonists. You value your information too highly, ignoring the fact that it has a very real and very finite duration of viability. Three more starships are on their way, and _White Cloud_ will be joining them. With or without you, Inderi, we will retrieve our colonists. Frankly, my dear, I hope that you reject my offer because the universe will benefit from your incarceration."

Inderi swallowed. "You are bluffing. You haven't encountered . . . them."

Sean nodded and he pressed a stud, and the technical details recovered by _Republic_ flashed into existence onto the wall mounted view screen. Inderi blanched, and her head fell.

"I don't bluff, Madame Delon. My offer is good for the next sixty seconds. What is your choice?"

***********************************************

"Did she talk, skipper?" asked Gerald as Sean exited the turbolift unto the bridge.

"She sang like a songbird, Gerald. Helm, set course to rendezvous with the _Republic_; make your speed Warp 9.9."

But Sean's face was tense and pursed. Gerald moved close and he leaned down to the older engineer. "Was it that bad, skipper?" he softly asked.

"Worse. Much worse. They don't just want the planet; no these aliens needed the human beings of New Columbia to restore genetic diversity that their own DNA has lost over thousands of years of inbreeding. They plan on disassembling our colonists on the molecular level to develop a treatment for their genetic disorders. They aren't hostages—they are medicinal supplies. Expendable medicinal supplies."

"Warp drives on-line, skipper," the helmsman said.

"Engage."

***********************************************

_"They are called the Nephkyrie. I discovered them . . . yes, I found them three years ago. When all of the might of the Federation and the Romulans and the Klingons and the Cardassians and the Dominion had not; I found them. My shuttle was having engine problems, and . . . there was the matter of a Ferengi ship hounding me. I came out of warp in deep space, far from any system, far from any reason to be there . . . and they were waiting."_

_"You are fools if you think them primitive. They are not. No, their home ships do not have warp drive, but they have warp-capable shuttles contained within—shuttles as large as some of your Federation starships. They were never warlike, or violent, but they are old, Commander. Old beyond all meaning. They roamed the stars before the first Vulcans awakened to question the universe; they explored and they learned when humanity huddled in caves and wore dirty hides to stay warm."_

_"I was scanned, and taken aboard, and for six days they didn't even speak with me—as if I were nothing to them. Until, finally, I was told I wasn't compatible. Yes, they examined me to see if my species could suit their purposes, for their long voyage is finally drawing to a close. Most of their people sleep in stasis; but that only slows the aging and the decay, it does not bring it to a halt. Their genetic structure has progressed to the point where it no longer reliably transfers its chromosomes to the next generation; they have outlived their own bodies."_

_"Well, I have always been a trader. I offered to help them find a race that was compatible."_

A question was asked from off-screen, and Inderi shook her head.

_"What did I care—my own people aren't suitable. I have brought them samples of Denobulans, Vulcans, Romulans, Klingons, Cardassians, Ferengi, Bolians, Efrosians, and finally . . . at long last, they discovered that it was human DNA which could restore their own ability to reproduce. Of course, a single human can only provide enough . . . raw material . . . to inoculate perhaps a score of Nephkyrie. They needed more, many, many more."_

_"And they needed a new home where they could—and those following after them—could settle."_

More questions, and Inderi laughed.

_"They tell me that in the last years of their planet, of their civilization, the Nephkyrie began to construct a fleet such as this galaxy has never before seen. Nearly one hundred of their ponderous vessels were built and millions of their people were loaded on board. Launched one after the other in a stream of refugees through space and time . . . until they found a world that resembled their home of so long ago and so very, very far away."_

_"They claimed that world a hundred generations ago, but like the rats of this galaxy have you humans scurried to every world and every system you can find, claiming it and its treasures, leaving other races without."_

_"Not this time. I found the compatible race, and I was to be rewarded . . . transformed into a Nephkyrie. I hired the Orions to deliver the beacon, to cleanse New Columbia of your colonists. And you cannot stop them. You do not even know what they are capable of doing."_

Chan Shrak shut down the view screen aboard the Briefing Room of USS _Republic_. "She refused to speak any further with Commander Philips, and has been returned to her brig cell. _White Cloud_ is en route as we speak and will rendezvous with us here within the next hour; _Balao_ is still at least fourteen hours away, with _Arrogant_ arriving in sixty-two hours, followed by _Independence_ in eighty-four."

Matt nodded and he tapped his stylus on the table. "Thank you, Mister Shrak. People, we have very little time and I want options; options that will allow us to rescue those colonists alive, if at all possible. I want a full analysis of all data we have so far collected; in addition, I want Science and Medical to go over Inderi's testimony in detail and try to reverse engineer what these Nephkyrie are trying to accomplish. Mister Malik, have you been able to extend the radius of your transporter inhibitor?"

"Yes, sir. I think we have managed to push it out far enough that those transporter-conveyed warheads won't be able to damage our shields—but expanding the field has also weakened it. They might be able to punch through."

"I want Engineering and Tactical to run simulations; take the maximum transporter power they showed us they can produce and increase it by a factor of 10. Mister Roshenko, I want you to do your best to get through the inhibitor—exhaust every possible scenario. The last thing we need is for them to beam a fusion warhead directly aboard this vessel."

"Mister Shrak, Miss Biddle. I want you two focused on working with the rest of the Science department on finding the weak points of that ship. If we can take out her main power reactors, then she might not have enough reserve generation capacity to pose as great a threat. And figure out precisely how we are going to be able to house that many colonists on just five ships."

Matt paused and he looked carefully over his officers. And then he firmly nodded. "Ladies and gentlemen, let's get to work."

"Mister Philips, welcome back," Matt said as he stood to welcome the Starfleet engineer back aboard ship. "Enjoying your first command?"

Sean grimaced. "She's not exactly the sort of ship I was expecting, Captain. Still, I think Intelligence will want to go over her in detail—seems the Orions have been busy at acquiring proprietary technology again."

"No doubt, Commander," Matt answered as he led Sean out of the transporter room and to the closest turbo-lift. "Deck 6."

The engineer shook his head. "Deck 6? Not the briefing room?"

"No, Doctor Talbot has some questions for your EMH; Mister Malik has set up a telemetry link to _White Cloud_ so that he can be activated in Holodeck 1. I thought it would be best to get your impressions at the same time."

"Ah, Captain, you should know . . ." Sean began as the turbolift came to a halt and the doors opened. "The EMH is rather annoyed."

"Yes, the Mk I tends to come across as rather abrasive, don't worry about that, Commander."

"No, sir. I mean annoyed at me."

Matt turned around to look at Sean as the turbolift came to a half. "Oh?"

"We had to adjust his appearance to fool Inderi. He didn't like that."

Now the Captain frowned. "I don't imagine that he did. No one cares to have their body altered. And I would imagine that he told you that."

"Yes, sir. Repeatedly."

Matt tapped his cane against the deck, and then he turned and continued limping towards the Holodeck. The doors slid aside at his approach and he, followed by Sean, stepped within. Rather than the black plating with yellow girds of an inactive Holodeck, Dr. Talbot already had the basic program running—a duplicate of the Chief Medical Officer's office.

"Doctor."

"Captain, Commander."

"Doctor."

Matt tapped his comm badge. "Mister Malik, we are ready when you are."

"_Activating the system_," the chief engineer said over the link.

The holographic doctor suddenly materialized. "Please state the nature of the med . . . this is different," he finished in a surprised voice. And then he sighed and held up his massive pudgy hands. "And I am _still_ an obese Orion crime lord."

Matt frowned, and he turned to glare at Sean. "You didn't restore his original programming?"

"We haven't exactly had the time, Sir. I was planning . . ."

"Dahlgren to Crewman Zapata."

"_Zapata here._"

"Mister Zapata, how long exactly will it take you to restore the Emergency Medical Hologram to its original parameters—while preserving its accumulated memory?"

"_An hour, perhaps less._"

"You have thirty minutes, Mister Zapata," Matt said curtly and then he directed his gaze at Sean once again. "You could not spare an hour, Mister Philips?"

"Captain Dahlgren, it's only a hologram—not something that has feelings."

"Mister Philips, the Emergency Medical Hologram is an extremely advanced piece of technology. I have read the classified reports Star Fleet Command has intermittently received from _Voyager_, and I can tell you that this hologram is far more than its creators ever intended for it to be. He is a member of the ship's crew—a _Star Fleet officer_ that deserves to be treated with respect and common decency."

Matt turned to the program. "You have my apologies, Doctor, for the . . . _inconveniences_ you have suffered."

The hologram swallowed. "Apologies accepted, Captain Dahlgren. Am I no longer aboard the _White Cloud_?"

"Welcome aboard USS _Republic_, Doctor," the corner of Matt's mouth twisted and then he smiled a crooked smile. "There are many doctors aboard my ship—what is your name?"

"Name? I haven't' been assigned one."

"We will correct that then, Doctor . . . _who_? Let me think," Matt said as he rubbed his sore leg.

"You are not get . . ." Quincy began, at the same time as the hologram asked "Is there an actual medi . . ." and then both stopped and looked at each other.

"He's my patient," Quincy growled.

"I was only asking, Doctor . . ."

"Talbot. Quincy Talbot, chief medical officer."

"Ah, yes. I read your paper on neurosurgical restoration of Trill symbiotic nervous tissue resulting from improperly balanced transporter fields. Might we discuss that in detail at some future time, Doctor Talbot?"

"Of course."

Matt grinned. "How does Dr. Robert Woolsey grab you, Doctor?"

The hologram frowned. "I am not familiar with a historical medical figure by that name."

"He delivered my three daughters, and was my family physician until his retirement last year."

"Ah," the hologram said, before he looked down at the deck and began to pace. "Woolsey . . . Robert Woolsey. Rob. Robby. Bob. Bobby. No. Robert. Robert Woolsey, medical hologram, at your service, Captain Dahlgren," the hologram finished as he completed his thought and came to a halt.

Sean shook his head. "Captain we don't have time for this."

"Mister Philips. We have ample time to greet this ship's newest crew member."

Quincy jerked up. "Now wait just a damn minute . . ."

"Stow it Quincy. You were telling me last week how much _Republic_ needs a third board-certified surgeon in case we get into combat again. Star Fleet won't assign a third surgeon; not aboard a ship this size—and you know it. Doctor Woolsey here, he is available and he is now your third-shift on-call trauma specialist."

"The ship isn't set up to handle an EMH!" Sean blurted out. And Matt turned back to him and glared.

"Then it is a really good thing we still have your engineers. I want sickbay outfitted with holoprojectors, in addition to all of the medical labs and department offices, main engineering, the bridge, and the brig. And once that installation is complete, I want his program transferred aboard. In addition, I want Dr. Woolsey given control of his own deactivation command—I will not have him turned on and off like a piece of equipment. You are capable of undertaking this task, are you not, Mister Philips?"

"I am," the engineer replied through a clenched jaw.

"Good. However," the captain continued as he turned back to the hologram. "It may be a while before we can do this, Doctor Woolsey. Right now, Doctor Talbot needs to ask you some questions about Inderi and anything she may have revealed concerning the Nephkyrie. And aboard this ship Doctor, you _will_ be treated properly."

"Thank you, Captain. It will be an honor to serve under a real Star Fleet officer, one who is a gentleman as well. I can't recall her mentioning the . . . Nephkyrie by name. What exactly are the Nephkyrie?"

"An alien race—the one that abducted the New Columbia colonists. Doctor Talbot will fill in all of the details."

"Ah. She did ask me to run an analysis on a tissue sample collected in a tricorder—a sample that does not match any known species."

"Is it still in the memory banks of the _White Cloud_?" Quincy asked sharply.

"Yes. Of course," Woolsey said as he looked pained at the idea that he would have simply deleted the information.

Matt smiled as the older doctor inhaled. "In that case, Doctors, I'll let you both get to work. Commander Philips, Mister Shrak has a detailed briefing for you. That second-hand Klingon cloak might just come in handy."

***********************************************

Matt taped his stylus against the table and frowned. "Are you telling me that we ignored another race's claim on New Columbia, Miss Tsien?"

Looks of shock went around the table following the science officer's statement and the Captain's question, but Amanda shook her head.

"Not exactly, Sir. I had Lieutenant Shalmut, the head of my Social Sciences Division, go back over every record we have of the initial exploration and colonization efforts at New Columbia. USS _Constellation_ surveyed the system back in 2337 and her report indicates that three probes of alien origin were discovered in orbit around the planet we eventually settled as New Columbia. Or rather, that she discovered the remains of three probes. The devices were very old and had no power, but were in a stable geo-synchronous orbit over the planet."

"No evidence was uncovered to suggest that the planet had indeed been claimed by another race—until after the initial colony settlement in 2344. Two years later, the colonists discovered an obelisk some eighty kilometers from the initial colony site. The obelisk displayed the same technology as the probes found in orbit, but the language on the obelisk proved to be undecipherable. The Science Council did dispatch a team to New Columbia to investigate the matter further, but were unable to discover any additional artifacts—and they concluded that due to the age and lack of further evidence that whatever race had left them behind did not intend on colonizing the planet."

"Our analysis of the beacon recovered from the colony confirms that the Nephkyrie are indeed the race that launched the probes and landed the obelisk."

Matt nodded. "Legal claims on the system aside, there is still the not-so-small matter of our colonists. Thank you, Miss Tsien. Doctor Talbot?"

"The tissue samples gathered by Inderi have been thoroughly analyzed by Medical, Captain. We have identified what is causing their chromosomal decay—and why they think that human DNA can restore it. The Delphi-3,4 protein string of Chromosome 17 has suf . . ."

"Simple English, Doctor," Matt said dryly, causing nervous chuckles from around the table.

Quincy looked up, with a stern expression on his face. "Small words are for small minds, Captain, sir. Basically, the Nephkyrie are a genetically engineered race; probably their own doing and not outside interference. They have used a very sophisticated technique to eliminate the negative physiological aspects from their chromosomal memory, leaving only the positive traits. Greater physical strength, higher bone density, increased sensory perception, enhanced reaction times—and their brains have been overclocked, to borrow an engineering phrase, allowing them multi-task on several cognitive problems simultaneously, as well as conscious control of some of their normally involuntary reflexes."

The surgeon shook his head. "It is an incredible accomplish, far beyond what the scientists behind the Eugenics Wars attempted. And the Nephkyrie were successful. But they missed something. The engineering rendered them extremely infertile as a race, a problem that they attempted to solve via cloning. And for a time, that solution was successful. However, like a . . . oh, an old magnetic tape that is has been played over and over again; the structure of their chromosomes has simply worn out. The protein strands no longer attach when they attempt to produce a new generation . . . they are a dying species."

"And how will using our colonists help them to repair the damage, Doctor Talbot?" asked Chan.

Quincy rubbed his lower jaw and shook his head. "I don't know exactly, Commander. Our best guess—and it is _only_ a guess—is that they intend to splice the human DNA, after it has been suitably altered to match the existing protein strands, in an attempt to restore their natural fertility. Physically, on the DNA level, they are very close to humanity as a species—far closer to us than the Vulcans or Andorians or Klingons. Or they _were_ before they began altering themselves. But that will only be a temporary solution; the dominant traits that are locked into their chromosomes will eventually overwrite the new DNA and force them to start over again with _fresh_ human DNA."

"Can they be aware of this?" asked Grace Biddle.

"I don't see how they could miss it. Their survival as a species will literally depend on having access to vast numbers of humans—farmed or otherwise."

Absolute silence hovered over the briefing room.

"Can we offer an alternative means of restoring their species ability to reproduce, Doctor?" asked Matt.

"Maybe. It'll need some study, and the Nephkyrie might not like the option."

"Explain."

"After discussing this with some of Amanda's Biological Sciences people, and with Doctors Donato and Woolsey, we think it might be possible to reverse engineer the chromosomal damage—to restore the species DNA to its original configuration and remove all of the genetic engineering. They would have to clone their next generation, but afterwards, the species would once again be able to evolve at their own natural pace."

"At the expense of their engineered abilities," Matt mused.

"Yes. If it works, and it might not."

"Mister Malik?"

"We've finished installing a second transporter inhibitor aboard the _White Cloud_, sir. And I have personally seen to the repair of Inderi's shuttle. We're ready."

Chan's antennae lowered and he stared at the Captain. "I must renew my protest, Captain Dahlgren. Regulations are quite specific on this issue—as you are well aware."

"I've already logged your objections, Mister Malik. But if we can manage to resolve this peacefully, it is worth the risk. We have to establish contact with the Nephkyrie, and since they already have spoken Inderi—and she is supposed to be rejoining them, I will pilot her shuttle and begin a dialogue."

Matt looked sternly down the table. "_White Cloud_ will be nearby in cloak and ready to assist if I need it. However, if I am taken by the Nephkyrie—or killed—I expect this ship and every being on her to do their duty. Regardless of how unpleasant that duty might be."

Each officer at the table nodded, and Matt joined them. "Assume your stations. If I am not back in twelve hours . . . there are sealed orders prepared that you will have to carry out. Dismissed."

Matt's senior staff rose and filed out of the briefing room, leaving only Matt and Chan seated at the table.

"I don't want command this badly, Matthew," Chan whispered. "One fusion warhead and that shuttle is gone."

"Nat's installed a transporter inhibitor in the shuttle, Chan. If they get frisky, I'll activate it and run to warp. But if I don't come back and the colonists can't be saved . . ."

"Oh, yes. I am quite capable of doing what must be done, Matthew," the Andorian's antennae contracted. "_Balao_ is only eight hours out. We can wait, you know."

"Every hour means it is likely that more and more colonists are being processed, Chan. We can't wait. And I have to take this chance, if either of us are to ever sleep peacefully again—we can't just exterminate them without trying to convince them to alter their plans."

The Andorian let out a deep breath, and then both of his antennae bent slightly in a sign of acquiescence. And then Chan stood. "Permission to escort you to Shuttle Bay 1, Captain Dahlgren," he asked.

"Granted, Mister Shrak."

The doors to Shuttle Bay 1 slid open with a hiss and Matt limped around to the hatch on the side of the old Vulcan shuttlecraft that filled the bay's interior. The thing was so large that two of the four Star Fleet shuttles normally stored here had been moved to Shuttle Bay 2 to make room. Several engineers were closing up access hatches on the outer skin of the shuttle, gathering up their tools and equipment, and slowly leaving the bay; each nodded to Matt and the XO, one even giving them a thumbs-up.

The pair came around to the side of the shuttlecraft, and Matt suddenly came to a halt. "What are you doing here?"

Quincy Talbot looked up from where he was sitting down on the ramp leading up into the shuttle's interior. "Waiting for you, Captain Dahlgren, Sir."

"Quincy, I don't have time for another lecture on the leg . . ."

"Oh, you have plenty of time because you aren't flying this thing, Captain."

Matt glared at his chief medical officer. "Excuse me, Doctor?"

"Beaming down to Hak'ta-thor was necessary. I understand. Getting almost no sleep so that your leg can heal, in order to get this ship motivated and worthy for the Fleet was necessary. I don't like it, but I understand. But this?" Quincy shook his head. "You aren't some twenty-two year old space cadet, Captain. You have officers whose duties encompass missions just like this, good officers."

"Quincy, I have to talk to them . . ."

"That's what sub-space radio is for, Sir. Your officer assigned to this mission will contact the Nephkyrie, and he will patch you through to them. Putting yourself out on the ledge isn't part of your job description anymore, Captain—and it damn sure ain't necessary."

"Thank you for that opinion, Doctor. Now step aside," Matt growled.

"No. Matt," the Doctor said as he stood. "I'll declare you medically unfit for command if you so much as place a single one of those six eleven boots in that shuttle."

Matt started to snarl, and then he saw the seriousness with which Quincy was stating his position. Instead the Captain turned to Chan.

"The two of you think this up together, Chan?"

Before the Andorian could answer, a fourth being cleared his throat from inside the shuttlecraft. Natantael Malik descended the ramp. "Actually, I called him, Skipper," the Trill admitted. "You don't need to be doing this, Sir."

"And while I was willing to let you go, Captain Dahlgren," the Andorian added, "I can't say that I am sad to see the good Doctor here and prepared to stop you."

Matt started to open his mouth, and Quincy shook his head. "I will do it, Matt. Don't force me to."

The Captain let out a long breath, and he nodded. "If my executive officer, my second officer, and my ship's surgeon are in agreement then fine; we will do this your way. I trust you gentlemen are happy now?"

"Happy?" Quincy replied. "Nope. Because that blue-skinned, ice-water in his veins executive officer of yours should have already knocked some damn sense into your head; instead of me having to come into this hanger to pull out the big guns. And you, Captain, Sir, should have more sense than to think the two of you could get away with this."

"I think he _is_ happy, Mister Shrak," Matt said. "Remember for when you get your own ship: if the chief medical officer isn't whining he isn't happy."

"I'll make a note of it, Sir," the Andorian answered.

"Whining? _Whining_? Why I'll . . ."

"You've made your point, Quincy—don't push it," Matt warned. "Mister Malik, I presume that since you and the doctor have grounded me, you have arranged for a pilot?"

"I have," the Trill beamed.

"In that case, gentlemen; let's get this show on the road."

The old shuttlecraft decelerated out of warp and immediately the threat receivers in the cockpit lit up.

"They know that we are here," muttered Lieutenant Ciyan Judek, the sole Antaran aboard the _Republic_, as he adjusted his controls.

"Chin up, Ciyan," Sean's voice came over the sub-space communicator. "If they decide to open fire with that many guns, the odds are you will be dead long before your brain can say ouch."

"Thank you, Sir, for providing me with that most motivating and fear-alleviating pep talk. Remind me never to ask you calm my jitters again, Commander. And to never volunteer on conducting repairs on an underway starship."

"Fear is a good motivator, Ciyan. Just hold it together."

Ciyan looked down at his instruments. "They are scanning me."

"We see it."

"And now they are hailing the shuttle," the engineer finished. He grimaced and flicked the communications switch

"_We feared that you had been compromised; already we have had an encounter with the dominant species in this region—the species that you assured us were nothing more than vermin, loathed by all others._" The guttural voice paused, and turned cold. "_Vermin do not build such starships, Inderi. What else have you lied to us about, we wonder?_"

"I am not Inderi. I am Lieutenant Ciyan Judek, of the United Federation of Planets, and I wish to establish a dialogue between my commander and your leaders."

"_Foolish and incompetent. The Solidarity is best served without her presence. You are not the species that Inderi termed human; you are Antaran, as was she._"

"Yes. The Federation consists of one hundred and fifty four member worlds, each of which has chosen to voluntarily request admission for their species."

"_A multi-species polity? How . . . unusual. And these humans? Are they members?_"

"They are one of our founding members. Who am I speaking with?"

"_Ah. Not vermin, indeed. You are speaking with the Solidarity of Nephkyrie. Are these humans still a force within your Federation?_"

"They are a major species within the Federation, yes."

"_And their settlements on our world were authorized by your Federation?_"

"We had no knowledge of your claim on New Columbia. Perhaps you can speak with my commander . . ."

"_Lies. We know our marker was landed; we know it was removed. And now we know the true threat we face._"

Ciyan heard the hum of a transporter beam, and he began to twist as an object started to materialize—when _White Cloud_'s own transporter beamed him out and away from the shuttlecraft, micro-seconds before the fusion warhead detonated.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

Matt leaned forward, and he rubbed his thigh with one hand. "Thank you, Mister Philips," he replied to the image of Sean on the main viewer. "_White Cloud_ is to proceed to New Columbia; I want you to take up a position in orbit above the settlement—and if you receive any indication that the Nephkyrie are activating that transporter beacon, I want you to destroy it. You are authorized for a photon torpedo strike from orbit, Mister Philips—I will provide that order in writing if you so desire."

"That won't be necessary, Sir," Sean answered. "I understand the stakes; if they can reverse the beam and transport to the planet, then removing them will be far more difficult."

"You're going to have a minimum crew aboard, Sean—I'm pulling all of my Marines back, and the majority of your engineers. And just so she doesn't' decide to try anything, we are transferring Inderi into our brig as well; that should be one less headache for you to worry about."

"Understood," the engineer said as the Matt cut off the transmission. "Mister Malik."

"_Sir_."

"Time for Plan B. How long will it take to reset the inhibitor field? I want it to conform with our shield bubble for maximum strength."

"_Thirty minutes, Captain._"

"How much will that increase the field strength?"

"_Enough that I will guarantee they can't beam anything aboard, Sir. However, we will be vulnerable to proximity warheads._"

"Not for long, Mister Malik, get to work down there. Miss Biddle," he addressed the Operations officer. "Plot us a course behind the Nephkyrie vessel, maintaining a distance of at least three million kilometers. Miss Montoya, let's make our way there and match that ship's vector and velocity. Once we are in position, I will need a plot at Warp speed to bring us out very close to their ship; Miss Montoya I want _Republic_ oriented so that our belly is facing their hull." Matt pulled up a schematic of the Nephkyrie vessel on the main viewer and he highlighted a small section of their hull. "Put us here, Miss Montoya."

"How close do you want her, Sir?" Grace asked.

"Our shield bubble extends fifteen meters beneath the keel; I want us to come out of Warp with no more than thirty meters of separation between our shields and their hull."

Everyone on the bridge, including Chan, turned to stare at Matt. Isabella's jaw gapped opened in shock, as her face drained of blood. Grace merely blinked. "Did you say thirty _meters_ of separation? Sir?"

"No _more_ than thirty meters, Miss Biddle. Ideally I don't want _five_ meters of separation. Ladies and gentlemen, we are going to get in so close against them that they cannot use their transporter delivered nukes without gutting their own ship in the process. Mister Roshenko," he continued as he swiveled the command chair to face his tactical officer. "We've got four phaser arrays on the ventral surface—I want every weapon emplacement that can bear on us destroyed the instant we come out of warp," dozens of different gun mounts began to flash on the display. "I do not want over penetrating shots if you can avoid it, Mister Roshenko. We will have bare seconds—at best—before they bring those seventy-six emplacements on-line and to bear; you will have to be accurate and fast."

Matt sat back and he rotated his seat forward. "I want us as close as a tick on a hound, people. Once we are on station, and their local weapon systems are disabled, the Nephkyrie will have a choice—begin a dialogue or continue to stonewall."

Chan cleared his throat. "And if they continue to stonewall? Sir."

Matt pressed another button. "Mister Beck."

"_Sir_."

"You have been listening as I suggested?"

"_Yes, sir._"

"I want all Marines outfitted with Phaser Rifles and field armor. Additionally, Mister Shrak will be sending you a list of crewmen that will flesh out your boarding parties. Can you outfit another hundred and twenty personnel gleaned from our crew and Philip's engineers?"

"_I don't have enough armor, but I've got plenty of phasers. And grenades; I've assembled a good supply of those since you installed that replicator, Captain._"

"Thank you, Mister Beck. If they continue to refuse to talk, ladies and gentlemen, then we will board them; we will find our colonists; we will recover our colonists; and we will destroy their transporter system. And if we can't; if the colonists are dead and they continue to refuse to even speak with us, then I'll blow them out of space."

Matt looked steadily ahead at the view-screen, and the corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "Any officer or crewman who feels that they cannot participate in such an action may report to Mister Shrak for transfer to the _White Cloud_. Miss Montoya, this is all contingent on you getting us that close. Can you do it?"

The young Lieutenant stared at the Captain for a moment and then she nodded her head slowly. She licked her dry lips. "Y-yes, Sir. I can get us that close."

"Get your departments prepared; Mister Shrak assemble a list of personnel to augment the Marines and have them report to Lieutenant Beck. We have thirty minutes until Mister Malik finishes his adjustments. You have that length of time to get ready for this. Mister Shrak, you have the conn; I need to inform Admiral Hanson at Starbase 114 in case something goes wrong."

Matt stood, and he turned around and cocked his head at the Andorian. "I have the conn, Sir," Chan answered; but then he stepped up close. "And they say _I_ am the crazy one, pink-skin," he whispered.

"Just get the ship ready, Chan."

"On one condition, Captain," the XO continued.

"Condition? You are setting conditions?"

"Yes, sir. You will not be boarding that ship, but sitting in that command chair, Sir. That is my only condition."

"Agreed. Now get her ready, Mister Shrak."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

"Miss Biddle, is our warp jump plotted?"

"Yes, sir," the Operations officer replied as she made a final adjustment to her controls, a thin bead of sweat dripping down her nose. "Warp drive will be engaged at Warp Factor 2, for .9732 seconds on computer control."

"Very well," Matt answered calmly, as he secured the safety straps across his waist. "Mister Shrak, set General Quarters throughout the ship, and sound Red Alert in all compartments."

The bridge lighting dimmed, replacing the normal bright illumination with a harsh red glow. "All stations report manned and secured for Battle Stations, Captain Dahlgren," the Andorian answered, as the klaxon screamed its alert throughout the ship.

"Initiate the warp jump, Miss Montoya."

"Aye, sir," she replied. "Warp speed in five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . ENGAGED!"

_Republic_ surged forward, crossing over the boundaries into warp, and then almost immediately dropped back into normal space. Matt could hear the thrum of the phasers firing even before Isabella could report. "We are at the designated coordinates, Sir; six meters, forty-two centimeters of separation between the keel and the Nephkyrie vessel!"

The ship rocked as a half-dozen Nephkyrie laser cannons struck her forward shields, but then the batteries on the alien vessel fell silent.

Pavel Roshenko looked up. "Weapon emplacements neutralized, Captain. No hull penetrations."

"Forward shields holding at 98%, Captain Dahlgren," the Andorian added, and then his antennae quivered. "We are being hailed."

"On screen."

The main viewer blanked and for the first time, Matt and his crew could see the Nephkyrie with their own eyes. The man on the screen was humanoid, his smooth skin a darkened bronze, offset by the coal-black well groomed hair that covered his head. Except for the strange skin color and the eyes—eyes with a vertical cat's slit and an iris of purple—he could easily have passed as a human.

"You will remove your vessel at once. You are not welcome here among the Solidarity," he said.

Matt nodded. "We will be depart as soon as our people have been returned to their home; the Federation does not desire conflict with the Solidarity, and we are prepared to greet you in peace. If they are not returned, however, then we shall meet you with war."

"War? You would go to war over such a small number of your people? For which my species has a need? You would condemn _thirty-five million_ to death for twelve thousand of your own kind, and see an entire species destroyed?"

"If it proves necessary, then yes. I am Matthew Dahlgren, commanding officer of the Federation Starship _Republic_. And we do not allow any race to steal away twelve thousand of our own people—not without paying the consequences of that action."

The Nephkyrie on the screen met Matt's stern gaze evenly, and then he nodded. "I am Typhias, and I am Speaker for the Solidarity. Your people were interlopers and intruders upon a planet which our race had claimed long ago as its own."

"Your claim was one which the Federation was unaware of until just recently, Speaker Typhias. However, on behalf of the United Federation of Planets, I promise that we will evacuate our colonists and leave you the planet. That offer is contingent, of course, on the colonists being returned to us safe and sound."

Chan cleared his throat and Matt swiveled his chair to face his executive officer.

"They are attempting to gain a transporter lock on us, Captain Dahlgren. The inhibitor is blocking their attempts—for now."

Matt turned back to the main viewer. "I would advise you to cease those attempts, Speaker Typhias; they might easily be interpreted as hostile. You have seen the power of my weapons; I would hate to turn them onto your vessel in earnest."

The Speaker turned to someone off-screen and spoke rapidly in a language that the universal translator did not recognize, making a slashing motion with one hand—a hand with four elongated fingers and two opposing thumbs.

"Transporter lock-on attempts have ceased, Captain Dahlgren," Chan reported.

"Thank you, Speaker Typhias. I would like to begin discussing on when we can expect our people to be returned."

Typhias's mouth twisted and he leaned forward. "Your weapons are impressive. As is your ability to block our transport beams; but I have heard nothing that would compel me to relinquish the specimens we have retrieved. The survival of my race is at stake, _human_, and I shall not let a mere twelve thousand lives of another species stand between our survival and extinction. You would do the same, would you not?"

"No. We would find another way. We will offer to your race our collected medical resources in an attempt to restore your DNA to it original configuration; my scientists and medical professionals have already determined that it might be possible to alleviate your own damage through means that do not require the death of thousands—millions—of my own people."

"And your solution has been tested and proven?"

"Not yet, but we can work toget-. . ."

"Then it is useless. The Solidarity must be assured of survival, _human_. And if survival requires that we harvest your species, than that is what we must do. I order you again to depart, and trouble us no further; failure to comply will result in your own deaths."

Matt frowned. "We are too close to your own vessel for you to risk your transporter bombs, Speaker Typhias. Do not force me into the position where I have to board you and recover our people through force."

"Board us?" the Nephkyrie began to laugh. "Ah, you are indeed amusing, human. You shall not step one foot upon the decks of this ancient vessel—but we will take yours."

The screen blanked, and Matt swiveled his chair as he heard the hum of a transporter beam—several transporter beams.

Nephkyrie troops, wearing thick heavy cuirasses of armor plating and combat helmets appeared onboard the bridge of _Republic_ and those aliens drew weapon, but the Marine security guards and the bridge crew already had their own in hand. Phaser and beams of unknown energy began to criss-cross the bridge as _Republic_'s crew fought the intruders.

Matt unclipped his safety belt and rolled out of his chair, just an instant before a high-energy beam burnt a hole through the back panel, and he tapped his comm badge. "Intruder Alert!" he barked. "All hands repel boarders!" Wincing with the pain, Matt knelt on his injured leg and drew his own Type I phaser, firing a long burst into one of the intruders.

The Operations console exploded under the fire of another Nephkyrie, and Grace Biddle was slammed to the deck, bleeding and burnt. Matt twisted and he fired two short beams into the alien who stood over Grace, joined by a third beam from Isabella.

And then the shrill sounds of phasers stopped; the Nephkyrie intruders were down, along with nearly half of Matt's bridge crew. Chan pulled himself back up to his feet, and he leaned on his Mission Ops station, holding a useless arm tight against his side in pain. "Intruders reported on Decks 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and 8. Mister Malik reports Main Engineering is secure, but he is requesting immediate reinforcements; Mister Beck is deploying Marine reaction teams and crewmen prepped for boarding operations against the Nephkyrie."

"How the Hell did they get through the in . . . no, don't answer that, Chan!" Matt snarled. "Miss Montoya—set course to rendezvous with the _Balao_, maximum Warp. Mister Roshenko, take out any transporter emitters on their hull!"

The turbolift doors opened and a pair of marines and two medics emerged.

"Transporter emitters destroyed, Captain," Pavel answered calmly. "That will only slow them, however—and they rolling their ship!"

"Now, Miss Montoya!"

And _Republic_ surged forward, into Warp and away from the Nephkyrie ship.

Corporal Alvin Thiesman held up one hand as he heard the pounding of feet on the deck past the T-junction directly in front of his team. He knelt and raised his Type III/f phaser rifle, knowing the two Marines with him had his back. He pulled the weapon in tight against his shoulder and he took a deep, slow breathe; and then a gaggle of Nephkyrie burst into sight, shooting over their shoulders as they RAN.

Thiesman exhaled and pressed the firing stud repeatedly, sending one high-powered phaser stun beam into each of the alien troopers in front of him before they could respond. But he remained where he was as he heard an incoherent scream of rage and more thundering impacts of boots. And then a hyperventilating Lt. Pok came running up, shouting Tellarite imprecations at the stunned Nephkyrie.

The Marine lowered his weapon, but the ship's quartermaster saw the motion and he spun, raising his own phaser pistol. "STAR FLEET MARINES!" Thiesman yelled, and he raised the rifle again. "SAFE THAT WEAPON, LIEUTENANT!"

Pok squinted and then he squealed as he lowered the phaser. "Didn't . . . see . . . you," he gasped, out of breath from the running. "I was chasing these cretins. Absolute morons," the Tellarite said as he kicked one of unconscious soldiers. "They broke a vase from the Vasana Dynasty of Janus VII! _Shattered it_!" the Quartermaster wailed. "It was a _priceless_ treasure, and they ruined it."

"You were chasing them? _Alone_?" Thiesman asked in an amused voice.

"Of course, I am not alone! My assistants are right behind me . . .," Pok turned and noticed that the corridor behind him was empty. He frowned. "They had best be stunned or they will be doing workouts with your Marines three times each day!"

"Lieutenant, why don't you come with us; there are more of them on the lower decks."

Pok nodded, then he grunted, and then he pointed the phaser at the unconscious Nephkyrie and shot each of them of them _again_. "They just knocked the vase right off the pedestal; as if they had no appreciation for its value."

"Let's go, Mister Pok," the Marine said as he struggled not to laugh.

"Lead the way; we Tellarites aren't that stealthy." And he fired one final stun beam into the unconscious aliens as he followed the three Marines to the Jefferies tube.

"They managed to breach the inhibitor field by a combination of factors, Captain," the Trill engineer reported as he shook his head. "First, they massively increased their transporter power—far beyond the amount we had previously witnessed. The good news is that their entire vessels power reserves dropped precipitously when they did this, and based on their observed rate of power regeneration, it isn't something they can do quickly or often."

"Second, they showed a capacity for using an extremely high frequency of sub-space; a frequency that our inhibitor did not fully cover. Sensor logs from their transport indicate their transporter was refocused into the tau-bands."

Chan shook his head in disbelief. "Didn't the Federation abandon research into tau-band transporter frequencies because of cellular degradation?"

"Yes, and the surviving Nephkyrie boarders are showing some signs of cellular disruption; their armor incorporates a miniaturized pattern enhancer that alleviated the worst of effect, reinforcing their pattern and minimizing the damage. Still, multiple transports in the tau-band will be as fatal for them as it would be for us."

"And finally," Nat continued, "they made no attempt to gain a transporter lock. The boarding party they beamed across was a blind transport into open compartments their sensors had already identified. Of the one hundred and forty-four Nephkyrie beamed aboard ship, thirty-seven materialized either partially or fully within a deck, overhead, bulkhead, or piece of equipment."

Several of Matt's senior officers winced at the thought, but the captain only nodded his understanding. "Mister Malik, how soon can they regenerate their power reserves from this previous attempt?"

"They will have to spend at least an hour restoring their energy, Captain; that estimate is based only on the power production capability we have so far witnessed. If they have an additional means to produce the power, they might restore it faster."

"Mister Beck?"

"We have all of the surviving Nephkyrie contained in Cargo Four, Sir. Our automated anti-intruder defenses, combined with the rapid reaction teams managed to neutralize their boarding party in short order. From our examination of their small arms, they lack the technology for hand phasers; however, their weapons are an early from of sonic disruptor that includes a stun setting. For the most part, they used the weapons on stun, perhaps in an attempt to gain more human subjects, but there were a few casualties among the crew. Their armor is lightweight and capable of absorbing and dissipating kinetic, laser, disruptor, and—to a limited extent—phaser energy. Tactically, their troops were well-trained in a basic manner, but appeared to lack actual combat experience. That may be due to their cramped conditions aboard that ship—but we shouldn't underestimate them."

"Individually, they are stronger, faster, and tougher than the majority of our personnel. It was their lack of experience in combat situations that allowed us to quickly overcome them. I don't think they were prepared for our level of resistance, and they had no contingency plans and failed to coordinate their activities across the ship. If I am reading their insignia correctly, their senior officer materialized within a bulkhead on Deck Four, depriving them of leadership at a crucial moment."

"Dr. Talbot?"

"The crew suffered numerous casualties in the engagement; thankfully, most of those are bruises and minor cuts, as well as hangovers from the stun weapons. We had a number of more severe injuries, but none—including Miss Biddle—are life-threatening. Dr. Tsien and I have been studying the Nephkyrie physiology based on our prisioners and we, along with Dr. Woolsey and the Biological Sciences division believe that given a few days we might well be able to fabricate a treatment option. We will have to test the serum to see if it is effective, however."

Pavel Roshenko shook his head. "Why don't they just clone the human DNA in vats; why do they need living, breathing humans?"

Quincy frowned. "In the short term, that might work. But it is their own cloning and genetic engineering techniques that have led to this problem. And since the majority of their population is in stasis—and according to the sensor scans conducted by Amanda, so are our colonists—they might not have the capacity in their medical labs to clone so much different tissue. I am guessing here, but I'd say, based on what I have seen of their ship's internal layout, that much of their equipment is stored, to be unpacked when they reach New Columbia."

"And their current numbers of crew are not nearly as overwhelming as we first estimated, Captain Dahlgren," Amanda Tsien added. "Three hundred and forty eight thousand of the Nephkyrie are in stasis, along with all of our colonists, leaving around two thousand of them active aboard that ship. Well, about eighteen hundred now," she finished with a sad smile.

"Miss Tsien, did our scans detect any anomalies in the colonists? Could they have started processing them within the stasis pods?" Matt asked as he tapped his stylus on the table.

"I managed to get a good look at the colonists, Sir. No. Their life signs matched what the records show; they are in a form of cyro-stasis with their bio-signs within the expected range—and apparently they did not want to provoke the other species of the Federation, sir. The two thousand colonists who were not human are also in stasis and their life signs are heartening."

Matt nodded. "Doctors," he said to Quincy and Amanda. "I want you full efforts on finding a treatment for the Nephkyrie—you are authorized to test your serum upon the prisoners. Consider that an order, Doctor Talbot!" Matt barked, cutting off Quincy as he began to snarl. "We have to know if it works. Mister Malik, make your repairs quickly and remove those fused Nephkyrie from my ship."

The intercom whistled. "_Bridge to Captain Dahlgren. Bridge to Captain Dahlgren._"

Matt tapped his comm badge. "Dahlgren."

"_Sir. Balao has just dropped out of warp and is moving to rendezvous with us at impulse power._"

"Acknowledge, Miss Montoya. I will be on the bridge momentarily. Hail Captain Carmichael and ask her if she would beam aboard so that I might brief her personally," Matt turned back to the staff seated at the briefing table. "Ladies. Gentlemen. We got lucky here; these prisioners might give us the means of resolving this situation without any further violence—but only if you can come up with a treatment that works. I have confidence that you are capable of doing so; but I need not remind that time is not our ally in this circumstance. You are dismissed."

The door to Matt's ready room slid open and Chan walked in, his arm in a sling. Behind him walked a dark-haired human woman who wore the three pips of a Commander on her collar. She beamed a smile as Matt stood.

"Captain Dahlgren," the Andorian said, "may I present Commander Samantha Carmichael, the commanding officer of USS _Balao_."

Matt shook his head and he smiled as well. "You may, Mister Shrak. Commander, it is good to see you again; both of you take a seat," he continued as he sat back down. "Care for a drink?"

"No thank you, Sir. I had lunch aboard _Balao_ before we arrived. I see that we missed some excitement."

"You could say that," Matt answered with a sad chuckle. "But we learned a few things about these Nephkyrie—and we've got a few captives aboard as well."

"More than few," Chan chimed in, "we have them packed into Cargo Bay 4 like cattle, Commander Carmichael."

"So they gave you _Balao_? I knew you would get a command, but I didn't think they would give you such a . . . _little_ ship."

"It's not the size of the waves, but the motion of the ocean, Sir," the commander of _Balao_ answered with a bright grin. "She's got heart and she packs a wallop. On a good day, she can take any ship in the Fleet."

"I have no doubt, Miss Carmichael," Matt finished as he considered his former second officer—his Operations officer—from the old _Kearsage_.

"So how are the kids?" she asked.

"Cass starts Julliard this fall, if you can believe it. Amanda, she doesn't like being called Amy anymore she declared in her last letter, has a crush on a young boy in her freshman class and is hoping he asks her to her first dance this fall. And Sarah is as rambunctious as ever."

"And Melody?" Sam asked, her smile fading.

"We talk. Infrequently. I don't blame her. It was my own fault for being away for so long; she deserved better."

"Begging your pardon, Sir, but she didn't have to leave you when you fighting for your life in the hospital."

"Water under the bridge. The marriage was over long before I was beached. And she's found someone who can be there for her, all the time; the way I wasn't when she needed me."

"At least they got you back into space, Sir," Sam quickly changed the subject. "Even if they had to drag the _Reprobate_ here off the scrap pile."

"_Watch_ it, Commander. _Republic_ may be an old girl, but she blew the pants off of _McHale_ and Rick Kessler."

"I heard. And I've also heard some rumors over sub-space about the Cauldron and a mysterious ion storm."

"If I told you the story, Sam, I'd have to have Chan jettison you out of an airlock. So stop fishing."

"Aye, aye, Sir. What are we facing here?"

"The Nephkyrie are not quite like anything I've ever met. They have some highly advanced technology, and yet they have only the most basic weapons and warp drive. Chan has a full briefing already laid out for you and your people, but they are full of surprises. Our number one priority is to recover the New Columbia colonists, and I hope that can figure out a means to do that without having to blow that ship to hell. We are working on possible sol . . ."

The door chime beeped and Matt frowned. "Come!" he barked. The door parted and a grim-faced Quincy stormed in, trailed by Amanda. Quincy nodded curtly at Sam, and then he turned his glare on Matt.

"What's the matter, Doctor?"

"We've just discovered something about these Nephkyrie that you need to know _right_ now, Captain."

Matt sat back and picked up his battered stylus and tapped it against the desk. "And that might be?"

"The prisioners—_all_ of the prisioners, Captain—are _children_."

"_Excuse me_? Doctor, they seemed pretty tall and developed for children."

"Matt, they are clones. And they have been in stasis for god knows _how_ long. They are _children_—the _last_ children of the Nephkyrie race, put into stasis and sent thousands of light years to found a new home. Children whose _bodies_ grew up slowly in the stasis tubes, but whose minds are still those of teenagers and goddamn prepubescent _children_!"

The ship's surgeon shook his head, and ran a hand through his grey hair. "They have had all of the Nephkyrie knowledge taught to them in stasis, their minds being impressed with the data of how to operate those ships, but _emotionally_? _Developmentally_? Every last _one_ of them is still a child."

"And right now, those children, despite the fact that they stand as tall you as you and Chan, are _scared_. They are _frightened_, Captain, and they are huddled together and _crying_ in confinement in that bare cold cargo bay. Damn whoever thought it was a good idea to turn them into _soldiers_, Captain, but they are _traumatized_! We can't go back there and kill an entire ship full of children, Matt. We _can't_!" the doctor thundered.

"And we won't, Quincy. We will find another way," Matt answered at last. "Computer, adjust temperature and light levels in Cargo Bay 4 to match those scanned on the interior of the Nephkyrie vessel—and play _Brahms's Lullaby_ on the speakers in that compartment."

"_Acknowledged_."

Matt sadly smiled. "It always calmed my kids, at least."

"Dahlgren to Counselor Trincullo," Matt said tapping his comm badge.

"_Sir_?" Andrea Truncullo's voice piped up.

"How are you with children, Counselor?"

"_Sir?_" her voice pitched up in question.

"Miss Trincullo . . ." and Matt shook his head. "Just meet me in Cargo Bay 4."

"_Aye, aye, Sir._"

Matt stood, followed by Chan and Sam. "This is where you _earn_ those Captain's pips, Sam. I want you and Chan to go over every bit of our tactical data—and you two find me a way out of this that doesn't involve killing _thirty-five thousand_ children. Doctors," the captain continued as he picked up his cane and limped around his desk. "You two are with me."

"Aye, aye, sir," a chorus of voices answered.

"Captain's Log, Stardate 53753.3, USS _Republic_. The revelation on the nature of the mental and emotional maturity of the Nephkyrie has complicated matters considerably. Through the efforts of Counselor Trincullo and the crew, assisted by personnel from the _Balao_, we have managed to calm these . . . children taken prisoner. In regards, their mental state has worked to our advantage, as they have provided far more information on the Nephkyrie race and their technology than an adult in a similar position would have. Of particular interest is that not all of their elders are gone: Speaker Typhias and his inner circle _are_ adult members of their race, amounting to less than one hundred aboard this ship alone. According to our POW children, there were several thousands of adults aboard when these ships departed from their home system long ago."

"Where have those adults gone? Typhias has never told the children how they died, or why; but our scans of the vessel did not detect any signs of a previous confrontation. No external damage, no weapons scoring of the hull, nothing. We do know that Typhias was not a senior member of the Nephkyrie ruling class when this migration began—but he is now the leader of his entire race; and the children have no knowledge of how this came to pass."

"Perhaps it is my own suspicious mind at work, but I believe that Typhias removed the other adults as they lay sleeping in stasis. I cannot prove it, but I have a nagging feeling in my gut that he murdered them. That would explain how a ship packed with refugees had enough vacant stasis pods to house the New Columbia colonists. But as disturbing as the mass murder of thousands of his own peers might be, for now, I am beset with the problem of retrieving the colonists while keeping as many of these children alive as I can. Through subtle questioning, we have a basic idea of the internal layout of that vessel, and the compartment where the Speaker and his council reside. And that information provides us with an opportunity."

"USS _Arrogant_ arrived three hours ago, under the command of Captain William Myers. Bill has advocated a full-scale attack on the alien ship by our vessels and _Independence_ when she comes out of warp in twenty-three hours. Fortunately, I have seniority over Bill and have overruled his proposal. That is not the case with Captain Salok aboard the _Independence_; and although Vulcans deplore violence, their adherence to logic may lead him into another confrontation with tragic consequences."

"Dr. Talbot and the medical department have managed to construct a possible treatment for the Nephkyrie genetic disorder, although its effectiveness has not yet been proven. I have ordered Medical to administer the agent to ten of the prisoners, randomly chosen. If all goes well, we will know in the next 24 hours whether or not we can restore their genetic code without having them harvest the New Columbia colonists."

"Commanders Shrak and Carmichael, along with Lieutenant Beck, have finalized plans for an assault boarding of the Nephkyrie vessel in the event that we are once again forced into action. However, this time we will endeavor to avoid the Nephkyrie children and strike instead for the head of this serpent: Typhias. Perhaps it is my sub-conscious desires projecting onto him, but his attitude, his arrogance, his . . . malevolence led me to the conclusion that he, and not these immature Nephkyrie, is the villain in this piece."

"Computer, save log."

"_Log saved_."


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty**

Matt took one step into sickbay, and then stopped as he heard the raised voices of the two doctors.

"No, you bloodless, inhuman, piece of technology," Quincy snarled, "the key is the Xi-227 protein chain! That single segment on chromosome 7 is what locked the changes!"

"You are mistaken, Doctor," the holograph answered with a pained look on his face. "Xi-227 is _inverted_, making it a mirror copy of the Chi-083 chain on chromosome 10! We can't treat Xi-227/7 without first correcting the engineering to Chi-083/10."

Matt shook his head and then he spotted Amanda Tsien sitting on a biobed watching the argument intensely. The captain limped over to her side, and he whispered, "How long has this been going on?"

"Hours, Captain. I am barely following their arguments, but it is like watching Quincy argue with himself: it's a train wreck and I can't look away," she whispered back, her eyes locked on the two medical professionals and their waving arms and pointing fingers.

Suddenly the noise level abated, as the scans of the Nephkyrie soldier ensconced in another biobed updated. "Hmmmmmm?" went both Doctors at the same time.

Matt cleared his throat, and the two doctors—one human and one holographic—looked up.

"When did you come in, Matt?" asked Quincy.

"We can call him Matt now?" the hologram interjected.

"No, you collection of assembled photon particles, _we_ can't call him that: _I_ can call him that!"

"There is no reason to be rude," the hologram replied. "Although considering your lack of overall intelligence, I should have expected it."

"Why you . . ."

"Doctors!" Matt snapped, causing both of the physicians to turn around and face him. "What is the status of your research?"

"We have . . ." Quincy began, as the hologram uttered at the same time, "There has . . ."

Both stopped and glared at each other.

"One at a time, gentlemen," the captain said gently. "Quincy?"

"It's going to take _time_, Matt. The engineered changes are extremely subtle in many cases and we have to go through and find those changes before we make any recommendations on a treatment."

"Having a living Nephkyrie to examine, Captain," Dr. Woolsey continued, "has only opened more questions. If we try to remove the modifications without examining all of the implications, it might have the effect of causing wide-spread genetic mutation—possibly fatal levels of mutation."

"I concur," Quincy snarled. "And no, Matt, we won't have an answer before _Independence_ arrives, not without the actual medical data on exactly how the Nephkyrie made these modifications and an example of the pre-modified genetic coding."

"We can infer the species original genetic coding through the modification markers, Doctor," the hologram added, "but it will take time to do an examination of each individual protein chain—the order of modification is more difficult to interpolate and remains quite open to interpretation."

Quincy glared at the hologram, but then he at last nodded. "The protein chains are a like a lock, Matt; we can pick it, but without a key it might suffer damage."

"How long?" Matt asked.

"Days? Weeks?" answered Quincy with a shrug.

"Months? Years?" Woolsey glumly whispered.

Matt nodded and he limped over to the intercom on the wall, pressing a stud. "Bridge, Dahlgren."

"_Go ahead, Sir_," Chan answered.

"Plan C, Mister Shrak. Inform _Arrogant_ that she is to accompany us. And patch me through to _Balao_."

"_Carmichael_."

"Commander, we can't count on the medical treatment; so we are going to try the third option. I want you and _Balao_ to remain here on station. Use the probes to keep that vessel under observation and inform me at once if there are any changes."

"_Understood, Sir. Good hunting_."

Matt released the comm stud and he turned back around to face to the Doctors. "Gentlemen, continue your research; perhaps we will get lucky. Miss Tsien, we will need you on the bridge."

And with that Matt limped out, trailed by the Science Officer.

Robert Woolsey pursed his lips. "He should really consider a prosthetic if the leg is bothering him that much. Why doesn't he just go ahead and have the procedure?"

Quincy frowned and he shook his head. "He's stubborn, Robert. And he wants to keep his natural limb, as irrational as that is when it's been damaged this severely. We've tried every conventional treatment and nothing works: damn the Jem'Hadar and their polaron radiation weapons."

The hologram nodded. "Have you considered an inverse replication transplant?"

Quincy stopped in his tracks and he turned around to face the hologram. "That only works on _Klingons_ with their redundant internal physiology."

"He has two legs, Doctor. From a certain point of view, he _has_—in this case—redundant internal physiology."

Quincy slowly nodded, and then he shook his head. "We'll discuss this later, Robert. For now, I want to map out Chromosome 12. Are you okay, son?" the doctor asked his Nephkyrie patient nee guinea pig.

"This is boring," the child in a man's body answered.

"If you are lucky, then life is boring, son," the doctor answered. "You get used to it. _I_ haven't been so lucky. Start new mapping routine, computer, Chromosome 12."

"_Acknowledged_."

"Care for a cup of tea?" Andrea Trincullo asked the nervous Operations Officer sitting in a couch in her office.

Grace shook her head. "Look, Doctor Talbot has already cleared me for duty, Andrea . . . so why I am here?"

Andrea picked up her hot steaming saucer and cup and she walked back across the office and sat down on in a comfortable chair opposite Grace. She took a sip of the drink, heavily sweetened with honey, and then she set down the china cup.

"You know why you are here, Grace."

Grace's face turned red, and she shook head. "Look, I froze, okay? I was surprised and I froze: is that so hard to understand? It won't happen again."

"Are you certain?" the counselor asked. "Was it because the Nephkyrie surprised you—and the rest of the ship, or was it because of what happened on Delta Pavonis II?" The operations officer flinched, but Andrea pressed on. "Isn't that incident what is really bothering you, Grace?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Grace whispered, as the color slowly faded from her skin, and beads of cold sweat started to appear on her forehead.

"Of course you don't. No one wants to talk out things like this, Grace. But whether you choose to talk about it or not, you are still waking up in the middle of the night gasping as your nightmares relive time and time again, aren't you?"

Grace trembled, but she directed her best command glare at Andrea—a glare that the counselor ignored completely.

"I thought so," Andrea continued. "And no, no one has spied on your quarters, Grace. I have dealt with other officers going through what you are right now; so I know."

"You know? You _know_? When have you fought the Jem'Hadar, Doctor?" Grace spat bitterly.

"I haven't. And I haven't got your experiences to further complicate the situation, Grace. But I read your file, and I know how troubled you are over this—how it is tearing you up inside. And, if problems in dealing with this are interfering in the operations of this ship, then it is my job to make certain you are ready to return to duty."

Andrea picked back up the cup and took another sip. She sat it back down in the saucer and wiped her lips. "Are you sure you don't want some?"

Grace lowered her head and rubbed her forehead with a thumb and two fingers, and then she at last nodded. "Two sugars and cream. Thank you."

Andrea stood and walked over to the replicator and punched in the order, and a fresh cup materialized. She brought the cup of tea back over and set it down in front of Grace, before she sat once again and crossed her legs.

"The caffeine helps with the headaches, right? And it keeps you awake until you are too tired to remember your dreams—but you still dream. Talk to me, Grace."

The blond-haired woman took a sip, and then she sat back, still looking at the floor.

"I almost resigned, you know," she whispered. "I had just finished filling out my papers when a friend at Headquarters commed to let me know that I had been selected for this slot here, on _Republic_. I figured it was karma, the garbage ship of the Fleet for the officers suited only for the trash-bin. I didn't expect that we would be assigned anything _important_. I didn't think we would be out here with a Captain demanding our best—I took this assignment because I thought it was the end of the road, Andrea."

The counselor nodded her head, but didn't say a word.

"I never thought I would have to pick up a phaser again," Grace finished as her voice trailed away.

For several minutes, the two women just sat there, sipping their tea, neither saying a word.

"It was supposed to a rescue mission," Grace said bleakly. "_Exeter_ had orders to evacuate a science station that was in the line of the Dominion and Cardassian offensive. All we had to do was get there, beam up the research team, and leave . . . but the Jem'Hadar got there first."

"I was part of the away team, and we got into a fire-fight with their ground forces—we didn't know the scientists were already dead. I've always been good with weapons, Andrea; I was on the Academy Marksmanship Team, you know."

"I know," the counselor answered. "And you took the Bronze at the Summer Olympics back in '68 for competitive shooting. Which makes your current aversion to weapons . . . peculiar, to say the least."

Grace shuddered. "I hated them, Andrea. I _hated_ the Jem'Hadar for all the death and destruction they caused; I hated them and the Founders and the Vorta and the Cardassians for unleashing this senseless, bloody war on us. So my phaser was locked on maximum. Because I didn't want Jem'Hadar prisioners, I wanted them _dead_," she said flatly.

"We were in cover, exchanging fire with the Jem'Hadar. And I got a shot at their leader—my adrenaline was high, and I was in the zone, tuning out everything else but my weapon and my target, and I remember, oh God, I _remember_ my feeling of absolute certitude as I pressed the trigger."

Grace drew in a deep breath, a tear crawling down her cheek. Andrea didn't say a word.

"I didn't even see Lieutenant Rasgon, Andrea. I was so fixated on my target, I never saw Paul get up and move into my line of fire until it was too late. My phaser beam caught him in the shoulder, and I watched him dissolve away into nothing! My shot killed him. Not the Vorta, not the Founders, not the Jem'Hadar; _my shot_ robbed him of his life! And I heard him scream as he was vaporized."

Andrea stood up and she crossed over to the couch where Grace sat, and she sat down, rubbing the Operations Officer on the shoulder and back.

"I don't remember the rest of the fight," Grace whispered as the tears fell like rain. "Someone hauled me back aboard, and I came to in sickbay as _Exeter_ was leaving the system." Grace looked up at the counselor, and her lips twisted. "Did you know that you were sharing a couch with a murderer, Andrea?" she asked bitterly.

"It was an accident, Grace," the counselor said soothingly. "You didn't mean to shot Lieutenant Rasgon, and you aren't the only one who did hateful things in this war. What we have to do now, is get you to pull yourself together. You can't change what you did on Delta Pavonis II, Grace. We can't go back in time and take a mulligan on our actions—we're only human. No, what we have to do is get you to a point where you can live with yourself, and accept that your past actions aren't a prophecy for your future."

Grace let out her breath, and she sobbed. "In a psych ward at Starfleet Medical, right?"

"Do you think that you are the only member of this crew carrying baggage from the war, Grace? The Captain alone has many, many dark secrets in his past—and he's the one who suggested that I have a talk with you."

"The captain?"

"Yes, the Captain. He said to me," and Andrea sat up straight, cleared her throat, and made a reasonably good impersonation of Matt Dahlgren's tenor Southern drawl, "Counselor, she's going through a bad time and she thinks she's alone. Don't judge, don't tell her she should have done things differently; combat veterans don't want to hear that from head-shrinkers. Just listen to her, and help her recover her own balance. Let her know she's not alone—that we all did things that we regret, and that we can't change."

Grace burst out with a combination of a sob and a laugh. "That sounds just like him!"

"Well, while you were training for the Olympics, I was on the Drama Team at the Academy," Andrea answered with a smile. "And you are not alone, Grace. We are going to get you to the point where you can live with yourself again, where you won't freeze when you in a situation like the one on the bridge."

Grace nodded sadly. "I'll brief my assistant to take over the department and we'll get . . ." she began, but Andrea cut her off.

"Absolutely not. Lieutenant Commander Grace Biddle, you will be resuming your duties on board this ship. We will be meeting twice a week—more if you need to talk—and we will work through this, together. But you aren't getting off easy with a vacation in your cabin while the rest of us have to work for a living!"

Andrea extended a box of tissues, and Grace took one and wiped her face. "Thank you, Andrea," she whispered. "I didn't really want to leave."

"I know," the counselor said. "And we don't want you to."

Grace stood and she adjusted her uniform. "In that case, Counselor, perhaps I had best report for duty." She paused, and then she turned back around. "About the Captain? What does he regret?"

Andrea shook her head. "His confidences are as sacred as yours," she answered. Or they would be if he had opened up even _once_ to me, she thought sourly.

The operations officer nodded. "Okay. Do I need to set up an appointment with you?"

"Check your schedule—it's already there. And if you need to talk, Grace, at any time just come by."

Grace nodded and then she exited the counselor's office.

Matt finished signing off on the final piece of paperwork in the PADD that Yeoman Sinclair had given him as the turbolift doors opened and Grace Biddle walked onto the bridge. She walked across to stand in front of Matt.

"Permission to return to duty, Sir?" she asked.

Matt nodded crisply. "Permission granted, Miss Biddle. It's good to have you back on the bridge—assume you station."

"Aye, aye, Sir," she answered, walking briskly over to the newly repaired Operations console and sitting down.

"Captain, we are being hailed by _Arrogant_," Chan called out. "Captain Myers is asking to speak with you in private."

"On screen, Mister Shrak."

The Andorian shrugged and he adjusted a few controls, and then the image of Captain William Myers appeared on the main viewing screen. The Starfleet officer frowned as he saw the bridge behind Matt on his own display.

"Captain Dahlgren, may we speak privately?" he asked.

"Captain Myers, we will be heading out in a few moments. I don't have time to waste, not if we are to make contact another Nephkyrie vessel before the arrival of _Independence_. If you have something personal to discuss, we can do so later. Otherwise spit it out."

Bill frowned and he sat back in his command chair. "Captain Dahlgren, I wish to log a formal protest of your orders. As difficult as the Nephkyrie ships are to detect and the sheer volume of space that we must search . . . well there is little hope of finding another vessel. Furthermore, even if we _do_ manage to locate one, what makes you think that they will respond any differently than the first one did? Right now, we have a face only eighteen hundred awake Nephkyrie—a difficult situation but one that we can handle once _Independence_ arrives. We risk this second ship—if we locate it—providing reinforcements to this vessel, which will change the equation from something we are equipped to deal with to being gravely outnumbered."

"Your protest is officially logged, Captain Myers. My orders, however, still stand. Is _Arrogant_ prepared to move out?"

"We are, but I have an additional . . . request, Captain Dahlgren."

"Go ahead."

William leaned forward, his expression pained. "I would rather discuss this private, Captain Dahlgren."

"Captain Myers, either this can wait or it cannot. Which is it?"

The Captain of the _Arrogant_ sighed and he sat back. "I want you to relinquish tactical command."

Matt sat perfectly still, and then tapped one finger on the arm of his command chair. "For what possible reason would I do that, Captain Myers?"

"You have four months seniority over me, Matt. _Four_ _months_. And almost a year of that seniority you spent in hospital wards and running a desk at Starfleet Headquarters, not sitting in the commander's chair. You aren't physically in any condition to deal with the stress of command, and your ship . . ." William Myers paused and he grimaced. "Matt, the only reason _Republic_ is even in service is that they hope you might pull off some miracle of turning that garbage scow into a Starfleet Starship! Between your crew, that relic, and your physical lack of well-being, Sir, I submit that aren't up to making the hard choices anymore. Hell, Admiral Parker sent you on a two-month trip to the Cygnus Sector, Matt! Admiral Hall doesn't need more ships out there; he did it to get you and that mutinous rust-heap out of the way!"

"Are you done, Captain Myers?" Matt asked in a soft voice that made even Chan Shrak shiver with the chill he conveyed.

"I did ask to say my piece in private, Captain Dahlgren. You forced my hand on this, however."

"I will log your statement for the record, Captain Myers, but your request is denied."

"Matt, just think about this for a . . ."

"Captain Myers!" Matt snapped. "You will address me as Captain Dahlgren, or Sir! Is that understood?"

"It is," William replied through clenched teeth. "Sir."

"Whether my seniority over you is a matter of four minutes, four days, four weeks, four months, four years, or four decades, Captain Myers, it remains that I am, in fact, _senior_ to you; and the senior officer on this station. Is that not correct, Captain Myers?"

"It is, Sir."

"As I have been cleared by Star Fleet Medical, Star Fleet Command, and this ship's surgeon for duty, my physical health and well-being is _none_ of your concern, Captain. I will note your objections and your statement in my log, but just so we are _clear_ on this issue, Captain Myers, do you intend to follow my orders or must I order your executive officer to relieve you of command and place you in confinement within your own brig?"

William inhaled sharply. "You wouldn't dare . . ."

"Don't think that for one second, Captain Myers," Matt interrupted. "You and I are both aware that Captain Salok can recite _verbatim_ the exact text of the regulations you are on the verge of breaking, without once resorting to reading the information from a PADD. You know that he will endorse my relief of you—for _cause_, Captain Myers!—and he will recommend you stand a general court-martial."

_Arrogant_'s captain sat heavily back, but he finally nodded. "I hoped to convince you, for the good of the service, Captain Dahlgren. I will, of course, follow regulations and obey your orders until the arrival of _your_ senior officer, Captain Salok."

"Good. Is there anything else you need, Captain Myers?"

"No, Sir."

"Very well. Let me make one additional thing crystal clear to you, Bill. If you ever refer to _this_ ship and her _crew_ in those terms again, either in public or in private, then by god, Sir, I will see you broken out of the service, then I will track you down on a planet where dueling is still legal, and then God as my witness, I will put either a foot of cold steel or a slug through your _heart_. Is _that_ understood, Captain Myers?"

"Yes, Sir," William whispered in a cold fury as he stared at the screen.

"Good. Then let us put this . . . _conversation_ behind us, Captain Myers. Have you received the coordinates my helmsman transmitted?"

"We have, Captain Dahlgren. Why aren't we splitting up to search for the Nephkyrie ship—and why are we starting so close? Those coordinates are just over a third of a light-year away?"

"Because we have already located the second Nephkyrie ship, Captain Myers; or did you forget that _Republic_ deployed over two dozen high-speed probes over the past few days?"

The other captain sat sharply upright. "You didn't tell me you located them!" he barked.

Matt stared at the screen in cold contempt until William finally relaxed and uttered one more word. "Sir."

"The probes detected the second ship less than fifteen minutes ago, Captain Myers. Right where the children we have prisoner stated it would be, if it were launched four months after the first according to the schedule as they understood it."

"But we don't even know their relative measure of hours or days; how did you . . ."

"We _talked_ to them, Captain Myers. And we found out how long their hours were, approximately, and how many of their hours were in a day, and how many of their days in a week; in short we used our _brains_ and our _humanity_ to gently ask questions instead of interrogating them as if they were Jem'Hadar shock troops."

"I want you to hold _Arrogant_ at two million kilometers, Captain Myers. From there, you will act as my reserve in the event _these_ Nephkyrie prove as hostile and intractable as those of the first ship. _Republic_ will make contact and attempt to initiate a discussion. You are to take _NO_ hostile action, regardless of provocation, unless I order you to do so, I am incapacitated, or _Republic_ has been destroyed. Is that _understood_, Captain Myers?"

"Yes, Sir," William answered sourly.

"Very well. We warp out in two minutes, Captain. Get your ship ready and bring your inhibitor on-line." Matt didn't wait for a reply and he cut the transmission from his own panel on the arm of his command chair. And then he frowned. He rotated his command chair to look at Chan.

"Mister Shrak. It appears that this conversation was just broadcast throughout the entire ship—with the exception of the bridge loudspeakers."

Chan's antennae quivered. "I must have accidently activated it, Captain Dahlgren," he answered with a sly smile. "All-ship broadcast is now terminated."

"Thank you, Mister Shrak," the Captain said as he rotated his command chair back forward.

"Miss Montoya, is our course plotted?"

"Yes, Sir, and the engines are ready."

"Mister Malik, set transporter inhibitor to full-strength."

"_Full strength, aye, aye, Sir_."

"Mister Shrak. Sound General Quarters and set Red Alert throughout the ship."

"Sounding General Quarters . . . all compartments report secure for action."

Matt sat back in his seat. "We will show that son-of-a-bitch just how much difference there is between our _Republic_ and a rusting out garbage scow of mutineers," he whispered just loud enough that the bridge crew could pretend that they hadn't heard him utter the words—but Matt saw the wide grins on their faces.

"Engage, Miss Montoya."

"_Mister Shrak. It appears that this conversation was just broadcast throughout the entire ship—with the exception of the bridge loudspeakers_."

"_I must have accidently activated it, Captain Dahlgren_."

And with that, the ship's intercom cut out down in Deflector Control. Chris turned his chair around and looked over the men and women of his section, and then he stared at Chief Bronson, who was chuckling and shaking his head.

"_Damn_," the burly NCO said. "I thought that the Old Man was tough on _us_! Guess he meant what he said about going to bat for us—and we aren't going to let him down are we?"

"No, Chief," came back a chorus of voices. To which Chris added his own.

The Red Alert klaxon sounded, and the lights in the compartment automatically dimmed. Chris turned back to his station. "Bring the main deflector on-line, deflection set to automatic, secondary and tertiary systems engaged," he ordered sharply.

The replies came fast and furious and Chief Bronson took his seat beside the Ensign. He examined his panel and touched a series of controls. "Dish is on-line and ready, Mister Roberts. Warp engines are warming up."

"Mister Roberts?" one of the techs called out from his station.

"Yes, Thompson?"

"Mister Roberts, we aren't going to let _Arrogant_ get away with saying those things about the ship, right, Sir?"

Chris glanced over at the Chief, who was struggling to control his own laughter and shaking his head. "Warp engines are on-line, bring the deflector to standard power," the Ensign said as _Republic_ began to surge forward, and then she shot past light-speed.

The Ensign watched the readings settle down and he nodded.

"Thompson," he said, "rest assured that _Arrogant_ and Jupiter Station both will get what they deserve." Chris smiled. "I heard a rumor that Senior Chief Callaghan has been working on getting back at the Jupiters; I imagine that his fiendish mind went into overdriving upon hearing that broadcast."

"_Damn_," the deflector tech whispered. "Loosing the Senior Chief on them? Man, it almost makes you feel sorry for them. Almost."

"Atrias, watch that intercooler temperature—it spiked last time we had to go to Warp in a hurry," Chris cut in, bringing his crew back to their jobs.

"On it, Sir."

"_Mister Shrak. It appears that this conversation was just broadcast throughout the entire ship—with the exception of the bridge loudspeakers_."

"_I must have accidently activated it, Captain Dahlgren_."

"Well, he really isn't fit for duty," Robert Woolsey said as he worked at the medical research station opposite of Quincy.

"Star Fleet Medical says he is, and I say he is. Does he need a good leg to sit in a damn chair?"

"Well no, but he can't pass the physical in his current condition. So technically, he should be relieved and reassigned . . ."

"Robert, there are times when we go by the book and there are times when we use our own judgment. This is one of the latter. As long as he sits down, he can do his job. Would you rather than SOB Myers in charge? I mean you are now _part_ of this ship—from a certain point of view, he called _you_ a piece of garbage."

The hologram looked up in alarm. "Perhaps I should report him for insulting a fellow Starfleet officer. Doctor Talbot, if they scuttle the ship—will they remove me first?"

"Matt won't let that happen."

"He's only a Captain! He's doesn't get to decide these things."

"He _won't_ let that happen."

"Tell me again, why are we preparing this solution of Golian Fireseed Extract?" the hologram asked. "Ninety-nine point seven percent of the races in the Federation have a mild allergic reaction to this substance; and it has no medical use. In fact, it can cause severe skin irritation and itching if even a minute effect is ingested."

"It's a special project for Senior Chief Callaghan."

"Oh," the hologram replied. And then he stopped and looked up again. "What does he need this solution for?"

"Trust me, Doctor Woolsey," the ship's surgeon answered with broad grin, "you _don't_ want to know."

"_Mister Shrak. It appears that this conversation was just broadcast throughout the entire ship—with the exception of the bridge loudspeakers_."

"_I must have accidently activated it, Captain Dahlgren_."

Gustaf Vasa reclined back in his comfortable seat, and he twisted the hairs of his thick blonde mustache. Finally, he nodded to himself. "Computer, load the physical profile for Matthew Dahlgren, commanding officer, USS _Republic_."

"_Loaded_."

Vasa, Lieutenant and Crown Prince of a small Nordic political province on Earth, tapped the console and brought up data patterns on a variety of different instruments. Selecting one he added it to the physical profile of the Captain.

"Computer, adjust specifications on Replicator Program Vasa 8934-Tau to ergonomically match the physical profile of Matthew Dahlgren. Adjust length, mass, width, and grip to conform to his profile."

"_Adjusting . . . complete._"

Vasa smiled and he sat up and began typing in additional data. No, this ship wasn't boring by any means, and if his Captain, if Gustaf Vasa's Captain, was going to threaten to fight another Starfleet officer in a duel, then Gustaf Vasa would make certain that the Captain had a sword fit for a King.

"Computer, commence replication."

"_Replication underway . . . seventeen minutes will required to complete the program_."

Gustaf leaned back in his chair and he smiled. A sword fit for a King.

_Republic_ came out of warp some six hundred thousand kilometers distant from the second of the Nephkyrie ships, her hull barely showing as a small dot in the depths of the view screen.

"Magnify," Matt said, as he secured his restraining safety belt. The screen flashed, and the sleeper ship grew much larger.

"Miss Montoya, match velocity and vector with that ship."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

The Starfleet cruiser altered her heading and began to parallel the ancient vessel.

"Captain Dahlgren," Chan said from his station, "we are being scanned. Their weapons are off-line."

"Hail them, Mister Shrak."

The Andorian pressed a few controls and then he shook his head. "No response."

"Very well. Miss Montoya, take us in to a range of 400,000 kilometers—slowly and smartly."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

Matt rotated his command chair, to face his science officer. "Miss Tsien. Scan that vessel, stem to stern, if you please."

"Aye, aye, Sir. I have altered the sensor beam modulations based on the data from our first encounters; we should be able to get a clearer picture with this one. Configuration identical to the first ship, weapon systems identical, hull composition identical . . . sir, I am detecting close to five hundred thousand life-forms, but all of them appear to be in stasis." Amanda frowned. "Make that one hundred and fifty thousand _adult_ life-forms and three hundred and fifty thousand _juveniles_—physical juveniles, Sir! The majority of interior compartments are in vacuum, with no power and no life support." She paused. "Correction, the ship is diverting power and life support to a cluster of compartments—and I am now detecting several dozen active life signs."

Matt nodded and he rotated his seat back to face the main viewer. "Let's give them a moment to wake up, shall we. Miss Montoya, what is the range to that ship?"

"484,000 kilometers, Sir."

"Hold position."

"Aye, sir; holding position relative to the Nephkyrie vessel."

For two long minutes, there was absolute silence on the bridge, other than the hum of the instrumentation. And then Chan looked up.

"Captain Dahlgren, we are being hailed."

"On screen."

The viewer flickered and then the image of a Nephkyrie appeared. "Greetings. I am Shipmaster Voltanis, representing the Nephkyrie Solidarity."

Matt unbuckled his belt and he stood. "And I am Matthew Dahlgren, commander of the Federation Starship _Republic_."

Voltanis bowed his head. "Forgive me for asking, Matthew Dahlgren, but my sensors indicate that this ship remains in deep space . . . how did you manage to locate us?"

"Yours is not the first Nephkyrie vessel which we have encountered, Shipmaster Voltanis. And that first contact was . . . a _difficult_ one which we wish to ask your assistance in resolving."

"Difficult, Matthew Dahlgren?"

"Your Speaker, Typhias, has not been willing to . . ."

The Nephkyrie jerked on the screen. "Typhias is not Speaker! He is a _clerk_ to the Speaker!"

Matt waited and then he nodded. "Regardless, he claims to be Speaker of the Nephkyrie Solidarity. The government of races that I represent—the Federation—did not understand your markers, Shipmaster Voltanis, and we placed a colony upon the world which your ships are travelling to, a world we call New Columbia. My ship discovered that Typhias abducted all twelve thousand of our citizens, beaming them aboard his ship, and placing them in stasis."

"Has he gone mad?" A second Nephkyrie voice came across through the viewer, and a regally attired being stepped forward. "How may I address you, Matthew Dahlgren? I am Belagon, and I Speak for the Solidarity upon Ark Two."

"My proper title is Captain Dahlgren, or simply Captain, mister Speaker," Matt said with a bow of his own.

"What you say cannot be true, Typhias's action would never be permitted by those chosen to lead Ark Prime."

"Mister Speaker, he did beam aboard our entire colony—claiming that my species was compatible with the Nephkyrie and could serve as a means to cure your genetic damage. Unlike this vessel, there are only a few hundred adult members of your race aboard his ship—and they had sufficient stasis pods to place my people in hibernation sleep."

Belagon's shoulders slumped. "_Compatible_? He follows the teachings of the Harvesting then."

"The Harvesting? He used very similar phrase when we spoke, mister Speaker."

"Long ago, Captain Dahlgren, when our race discovered that our genetic diversity had been lost and the damage to our chromosomes proved too wide spread to treat, a small cabal of the Solidarity refused to wait on the advances of science to find a cure. They called themselves the Harvesting, and they took samples from all of the species that surrounded our dying sun. They altered them and they _distilled_ them, and they found a way to negate—for a time—our damage. But then the Solidarity learned of their methods in finding this treatment, and they were tried as criminals of the first order. We thought them long dead and gone from our society. Your vessel carries at least as many crew as you claim Typhias has, Captain Dahlgren. And of multiple species, no less. Impressive. Why have you not recovered your colonists from him? Why have you sought out the Solidarity, risking that we would be like him?"

"His crew consists of only a few hundred adults, it is true. But there are many hundreds of other Nephkyrie awake aboard the ship." Matt paused. "Your stasis pods appear to stop the physical aging process; are they the same as the ones installed aboard your Ark Prime?"

"Yes. He has waked the children? They children are not mature—surely you can handle them?"

"Mister Speaker," Matt paused . . . there was no easy way to say this. "He has, to the best of our knowledge, altered the pods so that those within still age. Your children on Ark Prime are physically mature—and he is arming and training them as soldiers."

"You lie!" Voltanis snapped. "Not even a Harvester would dare do such a thing! It . . . it . . . it is incomprehensible!"

"I am sorry that I must be the one to convey this information, Shipmaster, mister Speaker. But we have one hundred and seven of your children—mature in _body_, but not in mind—that Typhias trained, armed, and sent aboard my ship to capture it. You are welcome to speak with them."

The Nephkyrie Shipmaster began to speak, but Belagon touched his shoulder and shook his head. "I will beam aboard your ship, then, Captain. I will see for myself what horrors Typhias has committed."

Matt shook his head. "We are well aware that your race can deliver fusion warheads via the transporters; however, I will allow you to beam aboard one of our shuttles, which will then carry you back to this vessel."

"That is a reasonable precaution, Captain Dahlgren. I shall await your shuttle then."

The screen blanked, and Matt let out a deep breath, and sat back down, wincing as his leg sent a deep stabbing pain into his thigh. He rotated the seat and faced his executive officer.

"Mister Shrak. Launch a shuttle and prepare to receive Speaker Belagon. Have a Marine detail standing by to render full Presidential honors."

"Aye, aye, Captain Dahlgren."

Matt punched a stud on his chair. "Doctor Talbot, meet me in my ready room," he said. He stood up, and took his cane. "Miss Biddle. You have the conn."

"Aye, aye, Sir," she answered as Matt limped across the bridge.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty One**

Belagon's face twisted as he stepped into the cargo hold and saw the mass of Nephkyrie _children_ assembled there. The noise of talk and games died down as one by one, the prisioners spotted their elder and each slowly came to his feet, or turned around, their eyes wide.

"Second Speaker?" one whispered, taking a step forward. "You are dead, Second Speaker . . . the Speaker told us."

"Who are you, child?" Belagon softly asked.

"Talondra Dal, Second Speaker. I . . . I remember you—but you haven't aged."

Belagon swayed, and a tear rolled down his cheek. "Talondra. I remember you, child. You were barely post adolescence, and your father was assigned as Shipmaster Prime."

The prisoner nodded. "He was killed in the attack that destroyed the rest of the Fleet . . . but you are _here_? How?"

"There was no attack on the Fleet, Talondra. The rest of the Arks are intact. And Typhias . . . Typhias has much for which to answer."

"But . . . but," Talondra stammered, and he too began to cry. "If there wasn't an attack, then why is Father dead?"

Belagon's only answer was to step forward and hold the weeping adult-sized child tightly in his arms.

Voltanis shook his head. "I never believed that I would use my knowledge of the Arks to aid someone in attacking them, Second Speaker," he sadly stated. "But in this case, I believe that you are correct."

The Nephkyrie Shipmaster laid a device on the table in _Republic_'s briefing room and he touched one side, causing a holographic display to spring into life over the device, rotating to show all surfaces of the Ark ships.

"There are five separate transporter emitters on the outer surface of the hull of Ark Prime," he continued as five blinking dots appeared. "Eliminate these and the primary transporters—the most powerful transporter units—will be disabled until repairs can be made. It was by combining all five of these emitters that Typhias was able to beam his boarding party across through your shields and inhibitor field. In addition, there are twenty-two secondary transporter emitters which are capable of delivering fusion warheads outside your shields." And more blinking dots appeared.

"Once the transporter emitters have been removed, you should be able to eliminate the weapons batteries that bear and close until your own transporters are within range. The central command compartment is located here," he touched another section of the surface and the image transformed into an internal schematic and zoomed in to display a series of connected compartment deep within the ship's hull.

"From these compartments, the ship can be controlled, and the Speaker Prime and his retinue were housed immediately adjacent so that they could quickly be waked and consulted should the Shipmaster deem it necessary. There is an auxiliary control center here," and the image moved quickly towards the stern, "which duplicates the controls of the central command compartment; it too must you take to gain control of Ark Prime."

The Nephkyrie Shipmaster shook his head. "And you must be fast. All of our Arks, you see, are outfitted with scuttling charges in the event that they were overrun by a hostile race. The Second Speaker has the overrides, but once they are activated you will have only three minutes to enter the codes before the charges detonate."

Matt nodded and he looked at his senior officers seated around the table. Captain Myers cleared his throat, and then he spoke up as the staff and their guests turned around to look at him. "How powerful are the charges, Shipmaster?"

"Taken all together, seventeen point four of the units of explosive force you refer to as gigatons," the Shipmaster said with a wry smile. "We did not want our technology to be looted and these were to serve as our parting gift to any who fought their way to victory."

For a moment there was only utter silence at the table, and then Chan shook his head. "That sounds simple enough. Three minutes should be more than sufficient time if Typhias's children soldiers are representative of your ground combat technology."

Voltanis snorted, and Belagon shook his head. "Those were civilian arms and armor, meant only for self-defense that Typhias supplied to our children. Our military weapons, Commander Shrak, are far more deadly."

"To start," interjected Voltanis, "each of our actual soldiers are clad from head to toe in combat armor that amplifies the strength of the wearer by an order of magnitude. This armor is designed to resist energy weapons fire by absorbing the energy, dissipating its effect. Having seen a demonstration of your weapons, I can assure you that our military grade armor will resist a single hit from your highest settings—once. It will take multiple high-power strikes to disable or kill a single one of our soldiers."

"In addition to carrying a hand weapon similar to that our children used against you, our soldier's main weapon was a derivative of the transporter. It projects a beam that disperses the material composition of the target, literally beaming away into nothing the object that the beam strikes. Rather part of the object or target; it only affects approximately one-half of your cubic feet at a time. Further, our military armor contains an integral inhibitor field meshed to the frequency of our weapons, as well as a pattern enhancer that allows our transporters to beam through shielded areas. Because of that, the weapon contains a secondary system that projects a disruption beam, similar to that of your phasers."

"Lovely," muttered Lieutenant Beck. "So they can beam away our arms, legs, torsos, or heads, _or_ hit us with the equal of Klingon disruptor rifles."

Belagon nodded. "Which is why I have already order Ark Two to wake our complement of soldiers—Typhias is our problem, and our soldiers will lead your assault, Captain Dahlgren."

Matt tapped his stylus against the table. "From what I have learned from my conversation with the Shipmaster here, your complement of actual soldiers is very small—not more than fifty per ship. Is that correct?"

"It is."

"In which case, I must insist that you let us augment your assault force with our own personnel; the fate of the Federation colonists is my problem, Second Speaker."

Myers shifted in his seat, but he kept his mouth closed, as Chan glared at him.

"If we are unsuccessful, Captain Dahlgren, your Federation will hold our race responsible for those deaths—and those of your crews. I beg of you, let us prove our worth in this instance."

"Second Speaker, the United Federation of Planets does not hold the crimes of an individual, or a small group of individuals, against an entire race. Speaking on behalf of the Federation, I promise you that regardless of the outcome, we will remove our colonists from New Columbia so that you may have your new home. And the Federation will offer to extend to you their hand in friendship and provide any assistance that you may need—our doctors and scientists aboard this ship are already working on finding a treatment for your genetic damage."

Voltanis sat back, barely breathing in surprise. But Belagon only met Matt's eyes, and then he nodded. "Agreed. We have years in which my people will sleep before we reach the planet; so that discussion can be held later. But I am honored that you would treat with us fairly, after what Typhias has wrought."

Matt stood, and he winced with pain before he regained his composure. The two guests and the remaining Starfleet officers stood in response. "Second Speaker, Starfleet's mission is to seek out new life, and new civilizations; to make peaceful contact and begin a dialogue between our different peoples. It is we who are honored to make First Contact with your civilization. Contact that I hope will be ongoing once you establish your colony."

Belagon bowed his head. "The Shipmaster and I will return to Ark Two, to prepare our men. It should not take more than hour."

"We will expect your return."

And with that, the two Nephkyrie exited the briefing room, escorted by away.

Bill Myers turned around and laid both his hands on the table. "Captain Dahlgren, you can't promise that—that is for the Council to decide!"

"I can and I have. They laid claim to the planet first, Captain Myers. Would you rather we fight them?"

"Of course not, but we can find them another planet! And this haphazard assault can go terribly wrong, Captain Dahlgren, Sir. People, our people, will die. We can wait for _Independence_, she's just sixteen hours out!"

"And if Typhias starts to process, to _distill_, our people in the meantime, Captain Myers? No. We aren't waiting. Thank you for your suggestions."

Bill opened his mouth again, and Matt interrupted him. "You are dismissed, Captain Myers. Make certain _Arrogant_ is prepared."

"Assume your stations, people," Matt finished, and his officers, along with the CO of USS _Arrogant_, filed out.

"End program," snarled Erwin Beck, and the computer in Holodeck One obediently reverted back to its normal configuration. "This isn't a game, Marines!" he snapped. "We have the exact deck plans of the target; we have a _perfect_ simulation of the environment; we have better intelligence on the capabilities of these Nephkyrie than we _ever_ had on the Jem'Hadar; and you people are _still_ moving too slowly!"

"One hundred and fifty seconds from the moment we beam in is _all_ the time we can count on, Marines. Because one second after that we are all dead! The colonists are dead! Those Nephkyrie children press-ganged into soldiers are dead! The three hundred and forty-eight thousand innocent Nephkyrie still in stasis are dead!"

Erwin ran his hand through the thinning hair atop of his head. "We have to cut our way to the command consoles where the deactivation codes can be entered—and those codes have to be entered to stop the count-down. That means if Parker or Karalis get hit, one of you has to take their place! Why do you think I gave _each_ of you the code? Winning the fire-fight is for _after_ we stop that bloody bomb from going off, Marines!"

"Do you get me?"

"WE GET YOU, SIR!" a ragged chorus of voices answered.

"And you Starfleet Security personnel had best get your act together! I know that your training included close-quarters combat drills, so get the lead out of your pants and _move_!"

One of _Arrogant_'s security officer muttered something, and Beck briskly walked across the deck until he was nose to nose with the officer.

"You have something to add, Jenkins? What was that that you said?"

"We're doing our best, Lieutenant; that's what I said! We've never trained for this Marine sh- . . . stuff."

"God, I hope not; because if that is your _best_, Jenkins, then we are totally screwed and twelve thousand Federation colonists will lose their lives!"

Erwin took a step back and put his hands on his hips. "It isn't _fair_ that the Old Man pulled your asses off of _Arrogant_ and _Balao_; it isn't _fair_ that you are beaming aboard a deathtrap to stop a maniac from killing himself and forty-seven thousand innocent people! It isn't _fair_ that your training means in this instance you are quite likely to die! Get over that! The universe isn't _fair_! No, this isn't your normal away mission, and this isn't about protecting a Starfleet vessel from hostile boarders; this is about saving the lives of people who can't defend themselves! And if you think _that_ is something only for Starfleet Marines, Jenkins, then you are a sorry excuse for a crewman and perhaps you need to rethink your career choice!"

"Run it again, and get it right this time! Computer, run Ark Prime Assault from the top!" Beck shouted as he exited the Holodeck and reentered the adjacent compartment where he was observing the drill.

Matt flinched as Quincy gentled probed the swollen flesh. The surgeon frowned and he ran a tricorder over the inflamed thigh and shook his head. "I was afraid of this, Matt," he said quietly. "The bone is infected _again_. Luckily, we caught it early this time."

"Just give me the shot, Quincy," Matt said through clenched teeth. "I've got to get back on the bridge."

"Matt, the Ladoculkaine VII is what's causing this; it stopped the pain, but it has also suppressed your immune system, which is why the infection has flared up so quickly. I can't risk giving you another dose. It's one of the known side-effects of the drug, but only in about eleven percent of cases; I'd hoped we would get lucky and avoid this complication."

"So what are our options, Doctor?" Matt growled.

"We fight the infection—and you've got to face reality here, Matt. We are approaching the point where that leg has to come off," Quincy's voice trailed off, and then he grimaced. "Or we try something radical and unproven."

The surgeon pressed a hypospray against the thigh and it hissed as he injected the tissue with a powerful compound to fight the infection. Matt flinched.

"How radical?"

"Dr. Woolsey has suggested that we attempt a Klingon procedure known as an inverse replication transplant. Basically, we scan your good leg, invert it to match your bad leg, and replicate the tissue. And then we go in and cut away the bad and attach the good. The problem is that it has never been performed on a human subject, Matt. It works on Klingons because of their redundant physiology, but has never been used on their limbs. It is used to restore damaged internal organs, primarily."

"How long would it take?"

"It's major surgery, Matt. We are talking twelve hours for the actual procedure, and you will be in bed for three or four more days afterwards, if not a week. If it works. If it doesn't, then the leg will have to removed completely, and we will have to look at a prosthetic or an organic replacement."

"Quincy, I can't spare that kind of time at this moment!"

"I know. We've got a few days for you to make up your mind, Matt, but the pain is going to get worse. I'll put this off until after you deal with the Nephkyrie, but then I want you on my table, Captain. And if the infection spreads, it won't matter how busy you are or how much you are needed; I'll relieve you and haul your ass down to sickbay for the procedure."

"I can live with that."

"You can die with that if the bone turns septic, Captain. I can give you one of your old pain meds, but . . ."

"But, they cloud my thinking. I'll manage, Quincy."

The surgeon nodded and he closed his medical bag. "I'm sorry, Matt. I thought the Ladoculkaine VII would give you time to heal."

"Not your fault, Quincy. Help me up, would you?"

The old doctor bent down, and Matt placed an arm around his shoulder, and together the two men got the Captain back to his feet. "And before you tell me, I am planning on staying in my chair."

"Glory hallelujah. He does have some common sense, after all," the doctor snorted as Matt pulled up trousers and fastened them.

"_Bridge to Captain Dahlgren,_" the intercom announced.

"Go ahead," Matt said as he tapped his comm badge, then took his cane from Quincy.

"_Sir, everyone is in position and ready to begin,_" Chan said.

"Very well, Mister Shrak. Sound Red Alert; I am on my way to the bridge. Dahlgren out."

Matt took two limping steps to the door and then he turned around. "And you best get to sickbay, Quincy."

"Hah. _After_, I escort you to the bridge, Matt. Don't want you to fall over in the turbolift and have to call for assistance in getting back up."

"Mister Shrak," Matt asked as he took his seat on the bridge. "Is the ship prepared for action?"

"She is indeed, Captain Dahlgren. _Arrogant_ and _Balao_ are standing by as well."

"Very good. Inform Captains Carmichael and Myers that we will execute the operation in one minute from . . . _mark_."

Matt pressed a stud on the arm of his chair and a count-down timer appeared over the main viewing screen. He took a moment to rotate his chair and look over each of the men and women who manned his bridge, _Republic_'s bridge. They were a far cry from the demoralized and unhappy officers and crew who had first boarded the ship not too many months before. He nodded with approval as each went through their duties with quiet confidence; calm and collected with the own sense of worth.

He completed his rotation and faced the main viewer once more, as the timer slowly ticked down towards zero.

"Miss Montoya . . . EXECUTE!" he snapped.

_Republic_ raced forward, crossing the light-speed barrier and she soared through space before she dropped to sub-light speeds once more, her phasers immediately spitting golden beams of energy at Ark Prime.

Explosions racked the surface of the Nephkyrie vessel as the transporter emitters on the outer hull erupted in balls of fire; _Arrogant_ and _Balao_ adding their own fury. Ark Prime's weapons came on-line, and pulses of red-shifted lasers and bright blue-white phase cannon bolts tore through space to strike home against the shields of all three ships.

"Primary and secondary emitter arrays are disabled, Captain Dahlgren," Shrak called out.

Matt opened a comm channel. "Mister Malik, drop the inhibitor field. Mister Beck, you may begin boarding operations. Shield status, Mister Shrak?"

"Eighty-three percent; numerous hits."

"Mister Roshenko, eliminate those weapon batteries."

Isabella corkscrewed the ship through a series of evasive maneuvers, and more phaser beams ripped out from _Republic_'s strips, each one connecting against a laser or phase cannon emplacement.

Erwin materialized in the depths of the Nephkyrie Ark amid a raging firefight of phaser beams, transporter weapons, and disruptor blasts. He dove for cover and armed a stun grenade, then hurled it in the direction of the heavily armored Nephkyrie shock troopers. Erwin winced as one of his Marines took a direct hit from the transporter beam weapons, his scream of agony cut off as his upper chest and throat dissolved, before the corpse collapsed to the deck, its feet twitching, and hot blood gushed out to cover the deck plates.

Well-trained troops, confident in their armor's ability to dissipate the energy, would have ignored the grenade and continued firing: Typhias's minions were _not_ well-trained. They dove for the deck as the grenade detonated, sending a pulse of stun energy harmlessly cascading across their armor.

But Beck's Marines and Voltanis's security personnel were already moving in, firing pulse after pulse of disruptor and phaser energy into the prone targets. Private Karalis was already at the central command facilities control panel and he entered the long code that Belagon had given him.

"_Auxiliary control secured_," a Marine reported over Erwin's comm. "_The kids are counter-attacking, LT!_"

"Understood. Hold your position," Erwin answered. "Stun settings only."

The Efrosian Private completed entering the final sequence and he pressed the acceptance button, but the machine just beeped twice, and Nephkyrie numerals continued to scroll across the screen. One the Nephkyrie security personnel cursed. "Typhias has altered the command codes!"

"Beck to _Republic_," Erwin snapped as he hit his comm badge, fresh beams of energy coming into the control room as the Nephkyrie children began attacking here as well. "We've got a problem."

"Time to detonation, Mister Shrak?" Matt asked with a chill running down his spine.

"Two minutes, fourteen seconds, mark," the Andorian answered. Matt nodded. "Open all-ship's all-hand's frequency. Initiate emergency action plan—all transporters beam those scuttling charges out of the ship. Don't waste time getting locks, just beam them out and disperse them!"

"Captain!" Pavel Roshenko called out. "One of their shuttlecraft—five hundred and fifty meters overall length—has exited Ark Prime; it just entered Warp on a heading to New Columbia."

"Typhias," Matt growled. "We'll deal with him later, concentrate on getting those . . ."

"GELAK COR!" yelled Chan from Mission Ops, then he shook his head and turned to look down at Matt, who startled at the sudden explosion of Andorian curses had rotated his chair. "_Arrogant_ just went into pursuit, Captain Dahlgren. She beamed her security people back aboard and has now entered Warp."

"Hail them!" Matt snapped, and he turned back around to the main viewer as Captain Myers appeared on screen. "Return to station immediately, Captain!'

"And let this criminal go? No, Captain Dahlgren. You and _Republic_ have killed enough people today; I will capture the man who began this, so that he may answer for his crimes."

The screen cut off, and Matt started to swear; he stopped, clenched a fist, and slammed it against the arm of his command chair. "Status on those charges?"

"One hundred and forty-five removed, Captain," answered Amanda from the science station, "two hundred and sixteen remaining."

"Time to detonation?"

"One minute, ten seconds, mark," answered Chan.

Matt pressed the stud that opened that opened the ship's intercom. "Any personnel able to get to the shuttles bays report to a shuttle or the ship's gig and power up those transporters; tie them into the bridge Science stations for control." Matt cut the intercom and rotated back to Shrak. "Mister Shrak, order _Balao_ . . ."

"Both of _Balao_'s shuttles have begun transport, along with all twelve of _Republic_'s shuttles and the gig, Captain Dahlgren."

Matt nodded, and he made himself sit back. "Status?" he asked after a few moments.

"Sixty-five seconds mark; one hundred and eight charges remaining."

Matt closed his eyes; he could hear Amanda Tsien, Grace Biddle, Pavel Roshenko, and Chan Shrak issuing orders as they assigned transporters on the spot to each charge after the next. He pulled up the schematics of Ark Prime on his arm-mounted display, and he saw the blinking strobes of the explosive charges vanishing rapidly; _Republic_ moving to the stern, and _Balao_ moving forward.

"Time?"

"Eight seconds, fifteen charges remaining, mark."

"_Last one!_" shouted Amanda, as the timer display over the view ticked down to zero. "It's in the matter stream!"

But she was a micro-second too late, as the high-yield fusion device had already begun to detonate when it was captured by the transporter system. _Republic_ shuddered as the warhead poured its energy into the matter stream, and then the dim red lighting flickered, and control panels exploded with the backlash of energy as the plasma conduits that fed power to them overloaded with a tidal wave of energy they had never been designed to contain.

Matt started to bark a command, and then there was a flash of light—he screamed in agony as his leg was twisted by the explosion that flipped his chair. And then all went dark.

Chris grunted as _Republic_ bucked violently beneath him. The instrumentation and control panels in Deflector Control were sparking and smoking as the young Ensign worked desperately to rearrange the isolinar chips. "Chief, link the primary, second, and tertiary systems together—they have to handle the power!"

They have to, Chris thought as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. He slid the last chip back into place, and the deflector began to power up. "We're up!" he shouted.

Chief Bronson grunted in answer as he punched in commands into his own control unit, ducking as another station exploded with the barely contained fury of the cascading energy ripping through the ship's plasma power conduits. "Main Deflector now configured for firing, Mister Roberts! I hope you know what you are doing, Sir!"

Chris swallowed; he had read about the tactic that the _Enterprise_ used in their attempt to stop the Borg before Wolf-359, but although he had gone over the steps of how it could be done in exercises, he had before actually _done_ it. He licked his dry lips. "On three, Chief Bronson, trigger the pulse—and maintain it until the system goes down or the power levels drop to within safety limits. One." Chris wiped away the sweat again as _Republic_ rocked under another internal explosion. "Two." Oh God, let this work, he quickly prayed. "THREE!" He yelled as he slapped the panel controls to life.

Bronson triggered the Deflector Dish, and the ship began to shudder and shiver and shake as an extremely loud hum filled the compartment. Chris looked up and out of the armored glass panel and he squinted in pain as a searing blue-white beam of incredible energy shot forward, extending deep into empty space.

"Power levels are falling, Mister Roberts! Five hundred eighteen percent maximum load; three hundred forty-four percent; one seventeen; eighty-four!"

"Shut it down!" Chris yelled as he ripped out the control chip and the energy beam died away.

Smoke rose from all of the instrumentation, and the young officer could taste the ozone of the burnt polymers and alloy plates. He turned around, and he looked at the older Chief Petty Officer, who was slowly nodding. "Plasma relay systems holding at fifty-two percent of rated capacity, Mister Roberts. We managed to dump the excess energy, Sir."

A rasping cough came from the other end of the compartment, and Crewman Thompson spoke up. "Dish is off-line, Mister Roberts. We've got warning lights on all the systems; we're dead in the water."

Chris nodded, and then an alert siren began to blare, and a strobing red light began to flash. "Hull breach! Evacuate the compartment, Chief give me a head count!"

He could hear a whistling noise that was growing louder, and Chris hurriedly glanced beneath consoles and under debris; then he saw the seam of the hull plating start to split open—and the black of space behind it. Oh shit, he thought, and he closed his eyes expecting to be pulled out through the fracture.

But then a strong hand clamped on his forearm, and Chief Bronson yanked him towards the exit, his other hand firmly clasped by two of the crewmen. Together, the four of them fought the growing gale of winds fighting against them, until they crossed the threshold and Bronson slapped the manual override, dropping the blast door into place and sealing off the breach from the rest of the ship.

Two engineers ran down the corridor towards them, carrying medical equipment and emergency tools. They passed around an oxygen bottle to each of Chris's people, and the Ensign gave them a thumbs-up.

He took a low pull of the oxygen, and slowly his heart began to wind down its frantic race. Chris shook his head and started to grin. "Well that's two hull breaches in Deflector Control on this tour, Chief. If we have a third do we get a prize?"

"If we get a third, Mister Roberts, I'm putting in my retirement papers."

"Sir, we are being by hailed by _Independence_. Captain Salok is asking to speak with the Captain."

"On screen, Miss Biddle," Chan Shrak answered calmly.

The main viewer flickered, it filled with static, and then it cleared to reveal the regal Vulcan seated in his command chair.

"Commander Shrak? I asked to speak with Captain Dahlgren."

"Sir, Captain Dahlgren is in surgery at the moment," the Andorian answered.

Salok arched an eyebrow in response. "Surgery? Why wasn't I notified?"

"Captain Salok, we knew that your ship was making her best time already; you could not have arrived any sooner if we had hailed you. Twelve hours ago, we secured the Nephkyrie vessel in a joint assault from _Republic_, _Balao_, _Arrogant_, and a contingent of Nephkyrie troops from Ark Two. Typhias had altered the command codes of Ark Prime, however, and we were forced into beaming away from Ark Prime the individual scuttling charges—a task made more difficult by _Arrogant_ breaking away to pursue Typhias."

"I am aware of those facts, Commander Shrak; Commander Carmichael kept me informed of the situation while _Independence_ was en route. Why was I not so informed of Captain Dahlgren's medical emergency?"

"You have my apologies, Captain Salok; I had assumed that Commander Carmichael would have, as senior officer on station, informed you. Captain Dahlgren was injured when we beamed away the final charge—a charge already initiating detonation. The transport absorbed the energy of that fusion explosion directly into the matter stream, and proved far too intense for the buffer to contain. The feedback overloaded every plasma power conduit on the ship, sparking internal explosions and two separate hull breaches. Captain Dahlgren suffered a concussion and additional damage to his already wounded leg."

Salok nodded. "Very well. When will Captain Dahlgren's surgery be complete?"

"We do not yet know, Captain Salok. He has been in surgery for over eleven hours so far."

"And you have assumed command of _Republic_, Commander Shrak?"

"I have, Sir."

"Your status?"

"Warp engines remain off-line, along with impulse engines. We were on emergency reserve power until two hours ago when Commander Malik managed to get a single generator up and running. Our casualties include seventeen dead and forty-four wounded—including the Captain. Structural integrity field is off-line, shields are down, weapons are inoperative, our sensors are inoperative, and the main Deflector Dish is damaged beyond the repair of onboard spare parts. Long-range communications are down as well, but all decks now have gravity and life support restored."

"I see. I notice that _Arrogant_ is not appearing on my long-range scans, Commander Shrak. Has she not returned?"

"No, Sir. And neither we nor _Balao_ have received any answer to our hails."

"Odd," the Vulcan mused as he folded his hands together. "_Independence_ will arrive on station in fourteen minutes, Commander Shrak. Does _Republic_ require assistance?"

Chan grimaced, and his antennae shrunk, but then he slowly nodded his head. "We would be grateful, Sir."

"And the situation on Ark Prime?"

"Speaker Belagon has arranged a cease-fire with the Nephkyrie children that are not in stasis. His . . . presence has been a stabilizing factor that put an end to the hostilities very quickly. However, Ark Prime suffered heavy damage in our assault; inadvertent damage resulting in beaming away the charges and the surrounding sections of the vessel without a proper transporter lock. They are losing power and will have to evacuate the ship within the next three days. Detachments from _Republic_ and _Balao_ are assisting the Speaker and Shipmaster Voltanis in powering up the eleven shuttles," and Chan chuckled, shaking his head at that word."

"Is something humorous, Commander?" the Vulcan asked.

"Captain Salok, Ark Prime—_each_ of their Arks—carries a dozen shuttlecraft the size of a _Nebula_-class _starship_. They are capable of reaching speeds of up to Warp 6 for limited periods of time; but even with all eleven and our own shuttles, it will require two round trips for them to evacuate all of the Nephkyrie children and our own colonists in stasis. The cargo carried will require an additional ten round trips."

"So they are warp-capable then; the Prime Directive was not violated, as Captain Myer's reports suggested."

"I haven't seen those reports, Captain Salok, so I cannot comment upon them," Chan answered in a clipped manner.

"Why then weren't their Arks equipped with warp drives of their own? Why generational sleeper ships?"

Chan nodded. "That is a question that we asked Voltanis and Belagon ourselves; the answer being dilithium, Captain Salok. Or rather a lack thereof. Their home system and none of the systems they had explored contained dilithium reserves; so their warp drives are more primitive, energy intensive, and slower systems that rapidly deplete their onboard supplies of fuel. If their ships had been Warp capable with their current technology, they would have run out of fuel and power less than a third of the way into the voyage."

"That explains the matter," the Vulcan calmly answered. "I will presume that you and Commander Carmichael are planning on moving the Nephkyrie and our own colonists from this vessel to New Columbia?"

"We are. It is the closest class-M planet, well within the limited range of their Warp drives. Close enough, in fact, that the . . . _shuttles_," and Chan's antennae twitched, "will be able to make at least six round trips to retrieve needed pre-fabricated buildings and essential supplies from Ark Prime's cargo holds. Shipmaster Voltanis has already sent a message to Ark Two and Ark Three, each of which are preparing to launch their own shuttles to join the children of Ark Prime on New Columbia; those shuttles will have Nephkyrie adults aboard to handle the assimilation of the Ark Prime children back into Nephkyrie society."

The Vulcan nodded once. "Starfleet Command will be dispatching a transport capable of evacuating the New Columbia colonists; although there are several members of the Federation Council who wish to have a word with Captain Dahlgren over his . . . usurpation of their authority in this matter."

"Actually, Captain Salok, it might be not necessary to evacuate New Columbia. Speaker Belagon and Shipmaster Voltanis have indicated that they intend to settle a different continental land-mass. They have agreed to allow the colonists to remain in place; and Speaker Belagon wishes to send an Emissary to meet with the Federation Council. He hopes that through the collaboration of our scientists and medical professionals that together we can find a successful treatment for the genetic damage his people are suffering from."

The Vulcan raised one eyebrow. "Indeed. Given your own—quite heavy—damage to _Republic_, I believe that I will request that USS _Portsmouth_ be diverted to New Columbia. Unless, of course, that you object to having a yard-ship on hand to assist in your repairs, Commander?"

"No objections, Captain Salok. Not a single one," answered Chan with a smile.

"Very good, Commander Shrak; we shall arrive on station in . . . thirty-eight minutes, Commander. I will beam aboard _Republic_ upon my arrival to survey the damage and speak with both you and Commander Carmichael in person. And then we can begin the talks with Speaker Belagon and the Nephkyrie people. Continue your preparations on readying those shuttlecraft for space, Commander. _Independence_ out."

The screen flickered and then died. Chan put both his hands behind his back and he turned to face Amanda Tsien, seated behind him at her science station—one of the few that hadn't exploded.

"Any word on the Captain, Miss Tsien?" he asked softly. And she shook her head. Chan nodded. "I will be in my office should there be an emergency, Miss Tsien. You have the conn," he finished as his antennae twitched once more. What's left of it, he thought.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

Matt heard a low whisper of voices, and he shook off the fog of his sleep, forcing his eyes open . . . and then he remembered. He sat up suddenly, but he wasn't on the bridge; he was in sickbay.

"Ah, the sleeper wakes," Dr. Woolsey said pleasantly as the hologram walked across the ward and placed a realistic feeling hand on the Captain's forehead. "And here I thought you were going to just keep sleeping, Captain Dahlgren. No fever, that's good."

Matt started to speak, but his dry throat caused him to cough instead and Robert Woolsey picked up a covered cup with a straw and held it Matt's lips. "Drink," he ordered. "Slowly . . . easy . . . that's enough."

He sat down the cup and glared down at the Captain. "Are we feeling better, now?"

Matt coughed. "The ship?"

"Is fine. Well, not exactly _fine_, but doing well. For a given definition of well. If you consider having no shields, no weapons, no sensors, no impulse drive, and no warp drive well. We do have internal life support and gravity, so we are better than we could be."

Matt threw back the sheets, and looked down at his bare legs peeking out from beneath a green hospital gown. "Where are my clothes, Doctor? I need to get to the bridge."

Robert shook his head and pulled the sheets back up. "The situation is well in hand and I want to keep you here under observation for a while longer."

Matt pushed them off again and swung his legs over the side of the bed. But then he stopped. His leg didn't hurt. He pulled up the gown and examined the bare thigh beneath it—no scar tissue.

"You and Quincy both are knife-hungry sadists," he snarled. "I said _after we dealt with the Nephkyrie_!"

Quincy's voice rang out from the doorway. "Didn't have a choice, Matt. The bone shattered when your chair flipped after that explosion on the bridge. Gave you one hell of a concussion and it twisted your leg until the bone gave way under the strain. At least you were unconscious and unable to argue," the chief medical officer finished with a shrug.

"I need to get . . ."

"Well, Captain. You need to get well. However, I think that the inverse replication transplant suggested by my colleague here has taken off quite well. That and the seventy-two hours I've kept you unconscious."

"_SEVENTY-TWO HOURS_!" Matt snapped at he jumped onto his feet, and swayed with a brief spell of dizziness. Robert caught him, however, and helped him back into the bed.

"I did warn you," Robert said to Quincy as he pulled up the sheets again. "I said that he would not like being kept unconscious; although it did give him a chance to recover without stress and strain."

"You did, but it is a prerogative of the chief medical officer of starship. Whose medical opinion overrides the orders of said starship's commanding officer," Quincy said as he unfolded his arms, walked over, and examined the sensor readings from the diagnostics bed. "Everything looks good, Matt. We just have a few tests to run and then you will be released."

"Quincy, I need to speak with Chan and Captain Salok should already here and . . ."

"Both of them are on the way to Sickbay, Matt. So shut up, open your mouth, stick out your tongue, and say AAH. While Robert here goes ahead and takes a blood sample."

". . . and so we should have partial impulse power restored within the hour, Captain Dahlgren, along with shields and the structural integrity field generators. _Independence_ will tow us into New Columbia orbit and will remain as we complete the repairs we are able to accomplish for ourselves. _Portsmouth_ is scheduled to arrive in twelve days, and she will perform the tasks for which we are not equipped," Chan finished.

"And the Nephkyrie? What have you decided to do with them, Captain Salok?" Matt asked from the where he lay on the diagnostic bed.

"Speaker Belagon and I have had quite fruitful discussions. I have assured him that the Federation will not abandon his people and will assist his own medical specialists and scientists in searching for a treatment for their genetic disorders. The colonists from New Columbia are . . . they are taking the entire matter far better than I would have expected, given their racial makeup. For the most part, they were beamed directly into stasis by Typhias and were not even aware of having been abducted or of the passage of time. Their leaders, however, have agreed to share the planet with the Nephkyrie."

The Vulcan cocked an eyebrow. "The Federation is sending an Ambassador to conclude a formal agreement with Speaker Belagon, however. And that delegation has expressed a wish to speak with you as well, Captain Dahlgren. They will not be arriving for at least two months, though, so you should have ample time to complete your repairs once _Portsmouth_ arrives on station."

"And Captain Myers? His actions directly led to _Republic_'s current condition, Captain Salok."

The Vulcan paused, and Chan's antennae shrank slightly. "We located the remains of _Arrogant_ yesterday, Captain Dahlgren. The emergency buoy ejected just before the ship was destroyed. The bridge recorder indicates that Captain Myers did intercept Typhias and that he forced him out of warp. He then prepared to beam aboard his own security forces and secure the vessel; upon dropping his inhibitor field, Typhias transporter several warheads aboard the _Arrogant_—there were no survivors. The Nephkyrie shuttle is comprised of the same hull material as their Arks, making long-range sensors useless in detecting his vessel. As a precaution, I have dispatched _Balao_ to New Columbia in case that Typhias decides upon a scorched earth policy in regards to the colony."

Matt nodded slowly. "I see. And his reports? I am aware that he filed several with you . . . indicating his displeasure with my actions."

Salok's expression did not change. "For the most part, his complaints were petty and emotional biased; you perhaps did not realize that two of his siblings and their families had settled on Omicron Cygnii II."

Matt winced.

"It was nothing personal, I am certain, Captain Dahlgren," the Vulcan continued calmly. "Any officer commanding this starship, with its history and . . . involvement in the destruction of that colony, would have provoked much the same reaction, I believe. His more serious charges, that you violated the Prime Directive by initiating contact with Ark Two were baseless. Not only do the Nephkyrie on that vessel possess warp technology, but they provided the information that allowed you to retrieve the colonists without losing one of their number. It is my intention, at this time, to fully endorse your actions. I have already submitted a preliminary report to Admiral Parker at Starfleet Command and Admiral Hansen at Starbase 114."

"Both concur with my assessment. Of course, politics being what they are in today's Starfleet," and the Vulcan's mouth twisted in a rare showing of mild distaste. "Command has decided that the details of the loss of _Arrogant_ would be counter-productive to the morale of Starfleet and the Federation. Accordingly, she was—officially—destroyed while assisting you and _Balao_ in beaming out the suicide charges from Ark Prime. Captain Myers reports have been sealed and filed away."

Dr. Talbot walked back into the ward where Chan and Salok stood over Matt's bed. "The final test results came back, Captain Dahlgren. I hereby pronounce you _well enough_. You are cleared to resume duty; _light_ duty, for now, if you please, Sir. Don't make me ask Captain Salok to make it an order," Quincy said with a smile.

The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. "And I most certainly would order it if your surgeon requested, Captain Dahlgren."

"I surrender, gentlemen. Light duty it is. Thank you, Captain Salok."

"Gratitude is not necessary, Captain Dahlgren. I only did my duty according to my oath of commission. From the evidence available to me, not only of your actions here with the Nephkyrie but from the incident in the Cauldron, I can only conclude that duty was what drove you as well."

"Captain Dahlgren, Commander Shrak," he continued. "I will leave several work parties from _Independence_ aboard this ship until your repairs are complete—or I am forced by other duties to leave this sector. Good day, gentlemen."

And with that, the Vulcan turned on his heel and exited the sickbay.

Matt pulled off the sheet and he stood up from the bed. "Okay, Quincy. So where are my pants?"

"You do realize that we had to cut your pants off of you, Captain?" the doctor said with a smirk. "But I have already informed Yeoman Sinclair and she is . . . here," he finished as the doors opened the Captains yeoman walked in carrying a neatly folded uniform, a set of underwear, a pair of socks, and freshly polished boots.

"Come!" Matt snarled as the chime rang. He remained facing the mirror set over the sink in the lavatory adjacent to his main cabin as he heard the door slide open. Finally, the clasp in the collar of his dress white shirt slid into place. Matt smoothed it down and he walked out into the cabin, to find his senior officers standing there, alongside of one additional Lieutenant. Like the Captain, each of the department heads were also clad in their dress uniform; although all of them (unlike the Captain) were completely dressed.

"Mister Shrak. I take it there is a reason that my staff has assembled here?" Matt asked as he lifted the white jacket and slid it on, giving it a good stiff tug to seat the shoulders properly.

The Andorian's antennae leaned forward. "There is indeed, Captain Dahlgren. On behalf of the officers and crew, Sir, we would like to present to you a gift."

"A gift? For working you until you were ready to drop? For pushing you to your limits? Gentlemen, ladies; that was a gift in and of itself."

"For making us stand tall, Captain Dahlgren; for forcing us to remember why we joined Starfleet in the first place," said the Counselor. "You made us better than we were, Sir. You made us—and this ship—proud once more."

Matt said nothing, but then he slowly nodded.

"Captain Matthew Lawrence Dahlgren," Chan continued, "please accept from us this gift. Perhaps it will serve you well in the future. And if I am a truly blessed, perhaps I will be able to see it used," he finished with a quiver of his antennae. "Lieutenant Vasa?"

The stocky, solidly-built, blonde officer stepped forward and he clicked his heels together and bowed slightly before presenting Matt with a polished wood case more than a meter and half in length.

Matt took the case, surprised at the weight and he laid it on the table. Two clasps secured the front and he pressed them, upon which signal the case top raised up to reveal a velvet lined interior in royal blue. And a slender curving basket hilted sword, along with a scabbard of brightly enameled in polished blue paint, chased with silver.

Matt whistled softly and he lifted the sword, feeling the grip match his own hand perfectly; the balance was superb. He turned the sword and looked at the engraved blade. _To Captain Matthew Lawrence Dahlgren_, it read, _master and commander of the United Federation of Planets Starship USS Republic (NCC-51497). May your voyages never end._

The Captain placed the sword back in the case, and he shook his head, flinching slightly as he nicked his thumb along the blade.

"Perhaps I should have said that it is _extremely_ sharp, Captain," the Lieutenant said in apology as he took a cleaning cloth and wiped the blade free. Quincy just opened his medical case and took out a dermal knitter and restored the minor cut without a single word—his broad grin said more than enough.

"I am . . . I am . . . thank you," Matt finally said. "If I may ask, gentlemen, ladies; why a _sword_?"

"Ah," the Swedish replicator officer spoke up. "You did threaten Captain Myers with a duel, Sir. His choice of blade or slug-thrower. I thought that you might _need_ an appropriate weapon."

Matt blinked once, and then twice. "Very . . . _considerate_ of you, Mister Vasa. Ladies, gentlemen, I am touched and honored by the gift; I will meet you on the bridge. Mister Shrak, would you stay?"

The senior staff filed out, leaving only Matt and Chan standing there in Matt's quarters. "Chan, you didn't tell them that I have _never_, not _once_, in my entire _life_, so much as picked up a sword before today?"

Then antennae of the executive officer quivered again. "The Lieutenant had already made the sword—and such a work of art it is indeed. Mister Pok provided him with the gemstones adorning the pommel and hilt, as well as the gold, silver, and platinum that form the wire wrapped, leather covered grip and the basket hilt. I didn't want to _disappoint_ either of them with the news that you were only bluffing. It would have broken Lieutenant Vasa's heart."

"What the _hell_ am I going to do with a sword? A real, live, sharper than a serpent's tooth _sword_?"

"Wear it with your dress uniform?" Chan answered as his antennae continued to twitch. "I do have some excellent swordsmanship Holodeck programs in case you actually want to learn how to _use_ it."

"A sword," repeated Matt as he shook his head. "Remind me to watch what I say in the future, Chan."

"I always do, and you say that was different. And _then_ you ask me to remind you in the future to watch what you say. Again."

The Andorian reached down and he lifted up the sword and then the scabbard; he slid the weapon into its sheath. He sat down the weapon and took out a long deep blue sash, which he wrapped around the Captains waist, and then with a curt command of, "Hold this, Sir," he once again picked up the sword and belt and he fastened it about Matt's waist, over the sash.

"There," he barked and shook his head. "You do look perfectly ridiculous, but it would be good for the crew's morale if you wore it."

Matt walked back over to this mirror and he took a long hard look, turning left and then right, his right hand resting on the pommel of the sword that peeked out from beneath the edge of his jacket.

"Yeoman Sinclair will have a fit; the jacket isn't tailored for this style. Still, it does look dashing, does it not?"

"If you were a _pirate captain_, then it might, Captain Dahlgren."

"And you usually _like_ such things, Chan."

"Oh, I do, I do indeed, Captain, Sir. I'm just wondering how you plan on _sitting_ while wearing that piece of finely forged steel."

Matt frowned. And then he shook his head. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, Mister Shrak. Now, I believe we have a ceremony to attend."

"That we do, Sir. That we do."

Chris began to step out of the turbolift onto the bridge, but he stopped in mid-step. Every one of the ship's senior officers were present; all of them standing and wearing their dress uniforms. And the Captain! The Captain was in their midst, and he was wearing a _sword_! The young man swallowed, wondering if he had missed reading a memo.

"Mister Roberts," the Captain said in strict and somber voice. "Why are you standing on my bridge? What are you doing on my ship when you are not in proper uniform?"

Chris swallowed and he took a step forward, allowing the turbolift doors to whisper shut. "I-I-I was told to report to the bridge, Captain, Sir."

"I see. That does not explain why you are out of uniform, Mister Roberts. I believe that, by now, the crew and officers of this ship are well aware of my thoughts on the proper dress code."

"No excuse, Sir. I-I will change into my dress uniform at once, if I may be dismissed!"

The executive officer stepped forward, his pale blue skin and white hair the perfect complement to his dress whites. "Captain Dahlgren, if I may?" he asked.

"Very well, Mister Shrak. Mister Roberts . . . STAND AT ATTENTION!" Matt barked. "Miss Tsien, open the all-hands channel, please."

"All hands is now open, Sir."

"This is the Captain speaking. Attention to orders! Let it known, that on Stardate 53753.4, when engaged in action against the Nephkyrie vessel known as Ark Prime, that Ensign Christopher Roberts, did, upon his own initiative reconfigure the main deflector dish of USS _Republic_, redirecting and expelling energy absorbed from the detonation of a Nephkyrie fusion scuttling charge contained in a transporter matter stream. The backlash of energy throughout USS _Republic_ exceeded the capacity of internal power relays to contain, and it was only through the quick-thinking and independent action of Ensign Roberts that the ship remained intact. Therefore, by the authority of Starfleet Command, as of Stardate 53753.9, let it published that Christopher Roberts is hereby promoted to the rank of Lieutenant, Junior Grade. May God have mercy upon his soul."

Chris stared as Chan stepped forward and removed his collar insignia, replacing them with the twin pips of a Lieutenant, j.g. The executive officer then stepped back and saluted; a salute that Chris quickly returned.

"Lieutenant Roberts," the Captain said, "you should also be aware that Lt. Commander Biddle, Commander Shrak, Commander Carmichael, Captain Salok, and myself have all written letters of commendation which will be added to your permanent file. I have also recommended to Starfleet Command that you be officially honored for your valor, your initiative, and your courage for those actions in Deflector Control by receiving the Starfleet Medal of Valor. Captain Salok has endorsed that recommendation. Regardless of how Starfleet Command makes its final decision on the Medal of Valor, Mister Roberts, the ship and crew have an award of their own they wish to make. Miss Biddle?"

The Operations Officer stepped forward, holding a ribbon suspended between her two hands; a round disk hanging from its lower edge. Chris bowed his head and she placed the ribbon around his neck; then she smoothed out the dark purple and grey swath of silk. "Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Christopher Roberts; the officers and crew of USS _Republic_ do hereby present to you the Order of the _Ts'kaba_. An award made to remind you, young Lieutenant, that prior bad acts and indiscretions, as well as accidents of clumsiness, do not serve as an appropriate judge of an individual's worth or character. Congratulations, Mister Roberts."

Chris blushed fiercely, and then the Captain stepped forward—without a limp!—and he took Chris's hand and shook it. "Well done, Mister Roberts. Well done indeed."


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

"Captain's Log; Stardate 53756.7, USS _Republic_. With the assistance of the crews of _Portsmouth_, _Independence_, and _Balao_, _Republic_ has finally managed to complete all of our needed repairs. Seven weeks of near constant work in orbit over New Columbia has managed to restore this ship to operational status once again. I must say, however, that both Captain Salok and Captain Terrance (of the _Portsmouth_) were taken aback by my insistence on installing ablative armor panels on the outer hull, as well as the internal spaces surrounding the warp core and anti-matter pods. Salok was concerned that such an 'unauthorized' alteration of the ship might have unforeseen consequences with our sensor coverage; whereas Denise Terrance feared that the additional plating might overstress our hull. Computer simulations—exhaustive simulations—convinced both of them that the installation would not result in either increased strain and stress or decreased sensor resolution. While pleased that they did sign off on the improvements, I was prepared to simply add the plating after their ships depart New Columbia. The added protection is more than worth any discomfort they or others might feel as being 'overly militaristic' in nature."

"The evacuation of Ark Prime has been successfully completed as well, with the Nephkyrie children and a selection of adults from Ark Two establishing their colony on the continental mainland to the west of New Columbia. We have worked to assist the Nephkyrie in constructing their first city, which they have named Lethtran; their word for 'New Beginnings'. The transfer of their colony supplies and equipment from Ark Prime impressed all of us Starfleet officers; the sheer magnitude of the equipment and stores which they managed to outfit this colonial expedition with boggles most belief. We should have expected it, for the Nephkyrie never developed replication technology; an oversight which should be corrected before long given the closeness with which we are working with them."

"With full access to the Nephkyrie medical databanks, rapid progress has been made on finding a treatment for the genetic damage suffered by this race. Even the most pessimistic of the Starfleet medical personnel now believes that we will have a perfected treatment within a matter of months at the most. Our own engineers and scientists have finally had the opportunity to examine in detail the Nephkyrie transporter technology, a technology that has the potential to revolutionize modern Federation life. Commander Malik was discussing this issue with Captain Salok only last night, at my farewell dinner for my fellow Captain, debating on how far this technology will change us. The Nephkyrie transporters are capable, if we understand the system correctly, of beaming an individual at distances of up to 25 light-years—provided that they have target beacon at the intended destination. Imagine living on Earth and beaming to work on Vulcan, or Andor, or Denobula each day, returning home in the evening. With the proper placement of beacons and strategically placed long-range transporter units, it might be possible to beam from the two most distant points in the entire Federation in just a few hours time."

"There remains one final task to accomplish before Captain Salok departs the New Columbia system with _Independence_. Inderi. Commander Philips promised that she would go free—a promise that he made on my behalf. I must support him, and yet I am keenly aware that without her willing assistance, the Nephkyrie would not have abducted the colonists in the first place. I believe that my officers and I have come up with an equitable solution in the matter, however."

"Typhias has vanished into the depths of space. Probes and patrols conducted by _Balao_ and _Independence_ have revealed no clue of his current whereabouts. The children aboard Ark Prime informed us that the shuttle Typhias took was outfitted with additional fuel reserves; he could anywhere within a region of ten Sectors by now. Admiral Hansen, in light of this villain remaining at large, has ordered that Sam Carmichael and her _Balao_ remain here in the New Columbia system—at least until the Nephkyrie defenses begin to come on line later this year. _Portsmouth_ is also overhauling and strengthening the shields and weaponry for our own New Columbia colonists. Combined with the two dozen Nephkyrie shuttles in orbit, all of which are armed, this should be more than adequate if Typhias comes calling."

"The fast transport _Vancouver_ will be arriving tomorrow as well, with the delegation from the Federation council. After speaking with them, perhaps _Republic_ can depart from here and continue on the Cygnus Sector. We shall see."

"Computer, save log."

"_Log saved._"

Inderi was escorted into Matt's ready room by two of Beck' Marines. Matt looked up from the monitor on his desk and glowered over the reading glasses at the Antaran woman—the criminal—standing there before him.

"Commander Philips made a deal with you, Miss Delon," he said sourly. "It is a deal that I am loath to keep, but he made it in my name. You are free to go."

"Just like that? I'm free to go? Go _where_?" the smuggler spat. "You destroyed my ship, along with all of my belongings. I have _nothing_! Starfleet owes me compensation, you owe me . . ."

"Nothing. We owe you nothing, Feringil Delon. But since your shuttle was destroyed by the Nephkyrie, I am having you transferred about the _White Cloud_. Baron Jowar owned two Orion shuttles that he stored in his hangers on that ship—pick one and take it. And Miss Delon? Don't let me catch you in Federation space again," Matt warned, and he turned back to the monitor screen. "Get her off my ship, Marines."

"I'll take this one," Inderi said sourly. "You people cost me several thousand strips of latinum I had hidden on my old shuttle—and this piece of Orion crap is the best that you can do?"

Sean Philips pursed his lips. "That Orion _Scorpion_ is only two years old, Inderi. It is faster, more maneuverable, and longer-ranged your _Shirak_-class. And it doesn't have inadequate reactor shielding. It is warp capable, it is armed, and it has shields, not to mention a two-person transporter _and_ a replicator. I think you are getting a better deal out of this than you deserve."

"Like I care what you think," the Antaran spat. "I was all set to retire into luxury, and now I have start all over!"

"Be grateful that you are still alive, Inderi," Sean answered. "Typhias would have killed you to cover his trail, you know."

The woman didn't answer; she was still frowning at the shuttle. Finally, she turned and looked directly at Sean. "Jowar had a fortune aboard this ship, stored in his vault. The least you can do is replace what I lost—four thousand, three hundred, and eighty-seven strips of latinum. It's only fair."

"Life isn't fair—and I think the value of this ship is worth the difference."

Inderi didn't argue any further. She walked up the ramp and pressed the control to raise it, buttoning up the small vessel. Sean and the two Marines from _Republic_ walked out of the shuttle bay and entered the hanger control room.

"Depressurize bay and open doors; spot the shuttle for launch," the engineer ordered one of his men. Slowly the twin doors at the stern of the ship slid open and a tractor beam lifted the shuttle from its berth and placed it on the center of the flight deck.

A blow glow began to appear in the small vessel's nacelles, and then it lifted up, hovered for a moment, and then exited the bay. Sean pressed a switch on the control panel. "Philips to _Republic_. She's free and clear, Sir."

"_Thank you, Mister Philips_," Matt's voice instantly responded. "_Resume your preparations for the return to Earth. Republic out._"

Inderi sat back in the pilot's seat and smiled as the auto-pilot took her smoothly away from the planet. She turned and walked back towards the passenger/cargo section, before coming to a halt before one non-descript panel that repeated the engineer status. Picking up a tool that she had taken from the shuttle's engineering kit earlier, she pried the panel loose, revealing a small safe buried into the hull. In seconds she had it cracked open, and was gazing with eyes of avarice upon the pile of gold-plated latinum bars Jowar had stored here: his rainy day fund as he had called it.

Those idiots, she thought. They didn't even _search_ the shuttle, at least not _properly_! She made herself ignore the treasure and reached in to extract a small, elegant, and utterly lethal weapon—a Varon-T disruptor; the _last_ original Varon-T still in existence. She buckled the holster and gun-belt around her waist and then returned to her seat.

She sat and plotted a course to Havalis II, smiling again at her freedom from the inept and utterly clueless Federation. The course plotted, she engaged the Warp engines, and the shuttle shook—just as all of her systems went off-line and the power flow from everything but her batteries died.

"Captain Dahlgren," Chan spoke up from his console. "The Orion shuttlecraft given to Inderi has lost all power; she's drifting on emergency reserve batteries with thirty-two minutes of life support remaining."

Matt rotated his command and smiled at Chan. "Now how _could_ that have happened? Perhaps she should have conducted a pre-flight inspection?"

"Indeed, Captain Dahlgren," his XO answered gamely. "Those Orion ships are veritable death-traps, as poorly maintained as they often are."

Matt turned back around and faced the main viewer. "In that case, she is clearly a disabled vessel in distress, ladies and gentlemen. We have no choice but to provide assistance, as we are the closest ship."

"Ah, Captain?" spoke up Grace as she turned around to face Matt, her eyes dancing as she tried to maintain a straight face. "Actually we are _not_ the closest ship; _Independence_ is."

"Thank you, Miss Biddle. Mister Shrak, would you hail Captain Salok, please?"

The main viewer blanked and then the Vulcan officer appeared on the screen. "Captain Dahlgren. We were preparing to warp out but our sensors have detected a vessel in distress. An Orion shuttlecraft."

"Yes, Captain Salok. We detected it as well. Your ship is the closest, and I believe that regulations require you to go to her assistance."

"They do indeed, Captain Dahlgren. Has a customs inspection been given this vessel previously?"

"It has not, Captain Salok," Matt answered. Philip's crew did go over the shuttle with a fine-tooth tricorder, but technically, there had not been an actual 'customs' inspection.

Salok raised an eyebrow, and started to say . . . but then closed his mouth. He nodded, and then he spoke again. "Is that not the same class of shuttle that you provided to the criminal Feringil Delon?"

"The same class, the same shuttle, Captain Salok. Perhaps it has a defect that the Orions missed."

"A defect. I see," the Vulcan answered. "You should be aware, Captain Dahlgren, that neither I nor my ship were bound by your promise to Feringil Delon. She does have several outstanding warrants for her arrest."

"Captain Salok, I agreed to let her depart—but both Commander Philips and I warned her to avoid future contact with Starfleet vessels. A warning that she has chosen to ignore."

"Then we shall render assistance to the vessel in question. And conduct a _proper_ inspection. _Independence_ out."

Matt sat back. And he folded his hands together, his fingers tapping against each other, as he smiled. I promised you that _I _would let you go, Inderi; try talking your way out of your crimes and possession of an illegal Varon-T disruptor with a Vulcan.


	24. Chapter 24

**Epilogue**

"_Bridge to Captain Dahlgren_," the speaker announced. Matt frowned and he sat back in his chair in his ready room and tapped his comm badge. "Go ahead, Mister Shrak."

"_Captain, Vancouver has transported the Council Delegation to the surface—with one exception. Ambassador Delena Mar has transported to the ship. She is demanding a private meeting with you._"

Matt sighed, "Escort her to my ready room, Mister Shrak."

The Captain stood, and smoothed out the wrinkles in his uniform as the chime sounded.

"Come."

The door slid open and the Ambassador, her aide, and Chan entered Matt's office. "Captain Dahlgren, may I pre . . ."

"He knows who I am," the Ambassador snapped. "You are excused."

"Madame Ambassador, welcome aboard _Republic_. Commander Shrak, would you care to join us—please everyone take a seat."

Mar glared at Matt. "I said he was excused; my business is with you."

"Unfortunately, Madame Ambassador, you are not in command here," Matt answered as he took his seat without waiting for the Councilwoman. "I am."

Chan's antennae quivered as the Argellian's skin flushed red and her aide had a pained look on his face. "Captain Dahlgren, if you would excuse me, I am supervising the transfer of the final load of stores from _Portsmouth_ to our cargo holds."

"Of course, Mister Shrak. I will join you shortly on the bridge."

The Andorian nodded his head, smartly turned on his heel, and exited the ready room, antennae still twitching.

Matt took off his reading glasses and set them down on the desk in front of him. He sat back and folded his hands in front of him. "And what may I do for the Federation Council today, Madame Ambassador?"

Mar took her seat, her aide still standing off to one side behind her. "You can resign," she hissed.

"Request denied," Matt answered with a small twitch of his lips.

"I've read the reports on the Lorsham affair, Captain Dahlgren. I am fully aware that despite that charade of a court-martial, you are guilty of breaking the Prime Directive. You do not deserve to wear that uniform and this ship does not deserve to remain on active duty."

"And yet, here we both are, Madame Ambassador. I do hope that you did not travel for more than four standard weeks to New Columbia in order simply to ask me to resign; you could have easily have gotten my answer over sub-space radio."

"No, Captain, I intend to fully participate in the Council Inquiry into exactly what happened here at New Columbia. You are an anachronism, a throw-back to the bad old times, a myrmidon who relishes in the power at your fingertips in the form of phasers and torpedoes. You are consumed with violence, and it is always your first answer—and that Captain is an abomination to the Federation. And I will uncover the Truth of your activities out here, no matter how deeply your Starfleet buries it." The Ambassador straightened her spine and she sniffed. "I had hoped that some small portion of your intelligence might remain that has not been overcome by your naked aggression; that you would see the sense in what I ask and resign to spare yourself—and others—the shame of what is to come."

"Sorry to disappoint you, Madame Ambassador; what precisely is to come?"

"Sooner or later, Captain, you _will _cross the line. This ship _will_ reveal its true dishonor to the entire galaxy. And when that day arrives, I intend to see that you get _everything_ you so richly deserve."

Matt frowned, and he rocked back and forth in his chair for a moment. "Madame Ambassador, I fear that you will have a long wait."

"Really? This coming from a Starfleet Captain who threatened a fellow officer with murder. A Captain who condones the theft of weapons of mass destruction. A Captain who ignores the regulations when they do not suit him. No, Captain Dahlgren, your history indicates that you will go too far one day, and one that day, I _will_ be waiting."

"But not today, Madame Ambassador," Matt replied.

Delena Mar smiled cruelly. "No, not today, Captain Dahlgren. Today you are a hero of the Federation, a brave Captain whose actions resulted in the loss of an entire starship and her crew; but you did save the colonists of New Columbia and establish peaceful contact with the Nephkyrie. Of course, you _did_ abduct a being in neutral space, you _lied_ to our Romulan allies, you took it upon yourself to _decide_ Federation policy in lieu of the Council—so I thought that you appreciate reading our preliminary report."

She extended her hand and her aide placed a PADD in it. She set the PADD on the desk and slid it across to Matt. Matt picked up his reading glasses and placed them in position and he scrolled through the document; he read it again and then he sat the PADD down and removed the eyewear, folding its legs and placing them atop of the electronic device.

"I see that the art of fiction writing is still alive and well, Madame Ambassador. It was kind of you to at least mention _Republic_ in that dispatch where you give credit to Captains Myers and Salok, as well as Commander Carmichael and Philips for resolving the situation. Although, you mention _implies_ that were it not for _Republic_ there would not have been a situation to resolve in the first place."

"That part is true, Captain Dahlgren. Without your ship arriving here unscheduled, it would have been another Starfleet vessel—a more reputable and honored Starfleet vessel—that would have dealt with the Nephkyrie. And with your penchant for issuing threats—threats that could be considered conduct unbecoming a Starfleet officer—it is for the _best_ that your role here be . . . understated."

"Madame Ambassador, whatever your problems with me," Matt said slowly, "this crew _deserves_ for their valor to be acknowledged."

"Captain Dahlgren, I don't give a damn about this crew or this ship. Or you, for that matter. _All _of you are guilty of crimes against the Federation—and you _will_ suffer for that. Today, you get yet another chance to postpone the reckoning. I _will_ be the next President of the United Federation of Planets, Captain Dahlgren. In two years time, _I_ will become the Chief Executive; it is . . . arranged. Which means that Captains and ships alike that displease me will find themselves without support. Why do you not just spare yourself the shame and humiliation of what will happen when that day arrives, Captain Dahlgren: resign. It will also spare your family."

Matt sat upright, and he coldly stared at Mar. "What was that, Ambassador?"

Delena Mar very sadly nodded her head. "Your conviction, and there _will_ be a conviction, Captain; they are oh-so-closely associated with you. Their future careers will suffer for your decisions of today. I will spread the word that the office of the President will be most displeased with anyone who employees your children, your ex-wife, your friends. And as a society," she sighed. "Well, we have not yet to totally eliminate violence. And your daughters are so very, very young . . . and vulnerable."

Matt licked his lips and he forced himself to unclench his hand and sit back in his chair once more. "Madame Ambassador, I cannot quite decide whether you are an idiot or a fool."

She jerked and opened her mouth, but Matt drove on. "Computer. Replay Ambassador Mar's last comments."

But only silence greeted his command, and Mar laughed. "Your computer is not recording this meeting, Captain. I have taken precautions, you see."

Matt saw red, and he nodded. "No, madame Ambassador, you are neither an idiot nor a fool. I stand corrected."

She stood. "I will be watching you closely, Captain Dahlgren. You and your ship. I will be counting votes in the Council very carefully as well; so tread lightly and please consider my request for your resignation. If your family actual means anything to you, that is, my dear Captain. Or get yourself killed on the frontier—that would make my job so much simpler."

Matt stood as well. "If you harm them in any way, then I swear to God, Madame Ambassador, I will kill you."

"And in attempting to do so, Captain Dahlgren, you will complete the journey into dishonor and contempt which you and this ship have already begun. You have no evidence, nothing to support your claims against me. Meanwhile, my agents are invisible and in place, and are prepared to offer you a lesson in civility."

She smiled a cold smile. "It is a lot to digest, Captain Dahlgren. You have a year to make your choice. Fight me and watch your family suffer, or allow the true order of things to come to pass. I so hope that you make the right choice, my dear Captain."

And without another word, the Ambassador and her aide turned and left Matt's ready room.

Matt stood there motionless for several moments, and then he sat down heavily. He turned in his chair and he opened a small cabinet, taking out a dark green bottle and four crystal glasses. He the bottle on the desk and tapped his comm badge. "Dr. Talbot, Mister Shrak, Commander Carmichael; join me in my ready room immediately."

Quincy blinked once, then twice. Chan just sat as still as rock. Sam's jaw dropped. And Matt took a sip of his smooth whiskey as he watched them process what he had just related.

"Is she insane?" the physician whispered.

"Irrelevant," said Chan. "The only question is what do we do now?"

Matt grimaced. "I should inform Admiral Parker and the President immediately," he said.

"Agreed," added Sam. "She can't become President."

"BUT," the Captain continued with a pained look, "she's from Argellius II. They _never_ take physical action of this nature themselves—and that means she has people on Earth. People who can _get_ to Cass and Amy and Sarah and Melody; people that are perfectly _capable_ of the physical violence she isn't. She isn't dumb—she's the Councilwoman for her system. She may already have orders in the system for her people to act if she goes down."

"Damn," whispered Sam. "Admiral Parker can put your family in protection, though."

"For how long, Sam? Right now, we've got time. She's threatened my family and we must presume that she has the means of carrying out that threat. Time to find the goods on her and her supporters."

"Until she decides she wants something else, Matt," Chan added. "This is no balance of terror; she has threatened you, this ship, and your family."

"None of which we can prove," Quincy snarled. "Of course, the computer is recording us right now—and it shows a big blank spot while she was aboard. That alone should raise some eyebrows."

"It won't prove anything, however," Sam said sourly. "And if we level an accusation like this against a member of the Federation Council, we need hard evidence."

Matt nodded. "And we are going to get that evidence. I have a few friends on Earth that I can trust . . . without question. We will find out who she's using—and make certain they can't pull this off. And once we do that, my friends, Delena Mar will discover that Starfleet officers don't always play by her rules."

Chan growled. "It is a shame that we Andorians no longer have an assassin caste. Still, crushing her dreams and shattering her political career should prove almost as satisfying; almost."

Matt nodded and he took another sip. "For now, my friends, we wait. Until we know that my family is safe and we gather hard evidence on her activities."

"And when that happens?" asked Quincy.

"Then she learns why you don't threaten a man's family, Quincy," Matt growled.

"We are clear of _Portsmouth_, Sir," Isabella called out from her station. "Course heading Two-Two-Seven Mark Forty."

"Increase to half-impulse, Miss Montoya," Matt said quietly. "When we clear _Balao_'s perimeter patrol take us to Warp 9. Next stop, the Cygnus Sector."

"Aye, aye, Sir," the helmsman answered sharply. "Accelerating to Warp Factor 9."

And _Republic_ surged forward and shot past the light-speed barrier.

Delena Mar watched as the streak of light _Republic_ left in her wake faded. She turned away from her window aboard the _Vancouver_ and walked back over to the table her aide and two other men were sitting at.

"We can try to convince the rest of the delegation that he is a loose cannon," he aide said. "We have his threats to Myers and his actions on McKinley Station; those in the Cauldron as well; surely that will be enough . . ."

"No, Jas," Delena answered as she took her seat and picked up a cup of tea. "I cannot afford to expend the political capital over this matter just yet; not if I intend become President in two short years. But then, perhaps _we_ do not have to deal with Dahlgren and his ship ourselves. Isn't that correct, Lord Mak'vegh?"

"That _p'tahk_ cost my House dearly; he destroyed the plans of many years. Yes, Ambassador, he has many enemies, and I shall be the one who drinks of his blood," the Klingon answered.

"Chancellor Martok has declared you a renegade, Lord Mak'vegh; you understand that I cannot and will not come to your defense?" Mar asked.

"Martok's end draws nigh, Ambassador. I may well be in exile, but I retain more than enough strength pay Dahlgren for what he cost me. What a pair we shall make—Chancellor and President, ushering in a new era for the Federation and Empire."

Mar smiled and she took a sip of her tea. "After you remove Dahlgren and his ship from play, Mak'vegh, we can discuss how our future realm shall be arranged. For now, pay attention to the present. I believe that Jas here has those schematics you requested—complete plans for _Republic_, including her command codes."

The Klingon barked out a laugh and he took the data-card Jas held out to him. "Your thorn will soon be no more, Madame President."

She lifted her cup of tea in a salute, and Mak'vegh drank deep of his blood-wine. But then the fourth member of the cabal leaned forward into the light.

"Regardless of the fate of Dahlgren and his ship," the being hissed, "his family must suffer in full for the price of his blasphemy. Such is the will of Ordan, my brethren," the Lorsham priest said gravely. "He desecrated our Temple and destroyed our Relics, but he knows Ordan not—and he suspects not that Ordan still lives within us. And while we hear the Voice of Ordan, we know that he cannot destroy our faith—but our faith can destroy him and all that he loves. Rest assured, the Day of Vengeance against Dahlgren and _Republic_ fast approaches."

The three converts to Ordan around the table nodded in agreement, and the priest smiled. "Blessed be Ordan."

"Blessed be Ordan," Mak'vegh, Mar, and her aide answered in unison.

**BE SURE AND LOOK FOR STAR TREK: REPUBLIC, BOOK II: TIES OF BLOOD . . . COMING SOON.**


End file.
